


The Last Dream

by MotherofBulls



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, Hurt, Politics, Post-War, Sacrifice, Statute of Secrecy Abolished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-01-05 23:24:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 73,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12199506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherofBulls/pseuds/MotherofBulls
Summary: The Dark Lord has built a new world where Draco's place is contingent upon him keeping his heart a secret. From afar he watches the only girl he ever loved as she builds a life with another. But it's all worth it if he can keep her safe.Sometimes the greatest type of love is also the most painful.Runner Up for 2018 Beyond the Nook Fanfiction Awards, Best War fic (Dramione subcategory)





	1. The Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this story in my head and my heart for ages now and I'm finally sharing it!
> 
> I know what you're thinking...does she REALLY need another WIP. The answer is, no. Probably not. But this is necessary. I have to get this story out of my head. If you're expecting the typical, wry, MotherofBulls humor, this story might disappoint. This story might hurt. But you can always read my fluff and humor later to mend your heart. Thank you for reading.
> 
> My lovely beta is SaintDionysus.
> 
> Gryff_intheGame did the MOST amazing graphics for this work, which you can find on my Facebook profile!!!

Draco crouched on the ground in his cell, trying to tame his wild mind to no avail. Wicked, anxious thoughts nibbled at him as he stared at the wall. Thoughts of Her. Thoughts of…well…all of it.

Life, death, love.

None of these thoughts were conducive to his sanity because they weakened his faculties—faculties that he would need if he was to pull this off. Plus, there was the obvious.

He was afraid.

How did he get here; in this disgusting, dark cell that stank of shit, wearing Harry Potter’s clothes?

He supposed it started with a slap.

____________________________

 

_“You foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach!”_

_He was too distracted by the crackling of her god-awful hair, which seemed impossibly bigger than it was a minute ago, to notice her tiny palm swing towards his face._

_SLAP!_

_Holy mother of Merlin, that bloody hurt! As he cradled the heated patch of cheek, he tried to collect his bearings. This truly was uncharted territory._

_No one had ever hit him before. No one had ever even touched him with anything resembling disdain. This was new. But above all, how dare she, a lowly Mudblood, strike a Malfoy? His great-great grandfather Marius would have had her executed for this._

_He said nothing, but his silence went unnoticed with the riot of noise that erupted around him. Crabbe and Goyle muttered grunts of indignation and vengeful promises. Potter and Weasley surrounded Granger with adoration and awestruck respect. As Draco cradled his face, everyone’s attention, whether positive or negative, was directed firmly to Granger. He felt ancillary._

_For the remainder of that day, Draco couldn’t seem to find his voice. No one spoke to him. No one wished to subject themselves to the embarrassment of acknowledging his shame. It should have bothered him more that his housemates pitied him, but he was too caught up in his own thoughts about the event to care._

_That night he was plagued with dreams about hands. Mauling, clutching, squeezing, pinching, grabbing, slapping hands. Delicate, pale hands cupping his face. Deep brown eyes of righteous fury bearing into his own._

_“_ _You see?” she asked. “This is how it’s supposed to be.”_

_Searing fire, burning his flesh, imprinting on his right cheek. The impish eyes flashed devilishly as a multitude of soft, little hands traced the mark emblazoned on his face._

_Her mark._

_The next morning, he woke manically, covered in sweat, heart racing. He scrambled out of bed and looked in the mirror. His eyes glazed lazily as he traced the handprint she left on his face. It had lost its warmth, but the mark was still angry._

_Fascinating._

_“_ _You should go to Madam Pomfrey,” Blaise suggested._

_Draco nodded but did not otherwise respond. He would not be going to Madam Pomfrey. This mark was his. He’d earned it. She gave it to him to wear, if only for a little while._

_Things were never the same after that._

________________________________

 

_Two years ago_

“The Dark Lord wishes to see you.”

Draco poured himself another Firewhisky. His third one in an hour. He should probably be level-headed when speaking to the Dark Lord, but it would take more than this to get him tipsy. “Why?” he asked Blaise.

The tall, dark man with the careful grace of a courtesan cyborg blinked, which for him, was quite the expression. “He didn’t say. Only that he wishes to see you as soon as you’re available.” This was code for ‘right this very second.’

“Fine.” Draco threw back the contents of the Firewhisky like it was water, then stalked towards the Floo.

“You really shouldn’t drink so much,” Blaise admonished quietly. “He likes it when our minds are clear.”

“My mind is clear enough.” With a _whoosh_ , he was swept away to the Ministry.

As the glimmering black marble of the Ministry came into view, Draco shuddered. The new headquarters were modeled after the old, and this room always gave him the creeps. When he was a little boy accompanying his father to the Ministry, he clutched to his father’s robes as they walked across the lobby. Something about the shining darkness and the harsh lights from the ceilings gave the effect that this was an ideal location for a vampire or some other foul creature, to attack a little boy. His father would tear his robes away and chastise him for his foolishness. “ _Stop simpering. Are you my heir or my daughter_?”

Now he just found it tacky. And droll. Droll and tacky. How utterly lacking in creativity was the wizarding community if they couldn’t conceive of a different setting than the old Ministry building? Whatever happened to ‘out with the old, in with the new?’

Probably a bit hypocritical when you've usurped a famously Muggle building to carry out nefarious, anti-Muggle policy.

He hated coming here, but the Dark Lord summoned him at least once a month ever since he’d been promoted to Lieutenant about a year ago. When Draco wasn’t working, he preferred to be left alone.

The Dark Lord didn’t give a shit about privacy. He didn’t seem to give a shit about much anything anymore, now that the rebels were mostly wiped out and his position was secure.

 _Most_ of the rebels, that is.

Though they were essentially impotent, the Order continued to evade him because Harry Potter still lived. Harry Potter, the no one orphan from nowhere, who spent the last seven years hunting down Horcruxes and destroying them. Now that the Dark Lord’s backup plans were significantly diminished, he had grown impossibly more volatile and paranoid of late.

This was likely why he summoned Draco. About once a month the Dark Lord would wake up in a rage about the fact that the Order, and their half-blood leader, Potter, continued to share the planet with him. He’d bloat Draco’s unit with supplies, money, and a whole slew of rat bastard spies and order him to make _that_ his priority. Draco would find a new lead that ultimately would lead to nothing, and the Dark Lord would be upset for several days. Then the Minister of Bulgaria or Finland, or some other frigid country far enough away that they did not have to endure the Dark Lord but rarely, would visit and demand to be entertained. Or perhaps a clan of giants would request an audience, insisting that their current territories were lacking in some way, and the Dark Lord would be tied up with other matters until his next bout of mania.

For some reason, the Dark Lord assumed that Draco was the best person to take down the Order. Draco assumed it was because he spent the entirety of his Hogwarts years engaged in an extended pissing contest with Potter. And even though there would be no love lost between him and that spectacled waste of space, he wasn’t sure what sort of insight he could possibly bring to the situation. All he knew about Potter was that he was an orphan of mediocre magical talent who always seemed to get himself into trouble with his hero antics in school. He was a decent enough Seeker, but nothing special. Draco had loathed him in school for no other reason than he was the obvious choice to be his rival. As a kid, the idea of having a nemesis greatly appealed to him, and Potter with his self-righteous idiocy and his ginger oaf of a sidekick made for the perfect choice. Plus, Draco and Potter played the same position on their house Quidditch teams, which meant that Draco would have despised him even if he _hadn’t_ been gifted with an odious personality.

Plus, there was the fact that the smartest girl in school did all his homework for him, and nobody seemed to notice.

He grimaced as he attempted to ignore the swirl in his stomach when he thought about Her, and pushed the thought as far back into his mind as possible. His Occlumency was good enough that the Dark Lord never found out about that. He wouldn’t ruin it today just because he’d had a few Firewhiskies.

He cleared his mind as he approached the Minister’s floor. Two oafish wizards stood guard to his chambers.

“State your purpose.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Lieutenant Malfoy. His Lordship sent for me.” They should know his face by now, and they would if they didn’t have a combined IQ that would even induce Crabbe and Goyle to sneer in superiority. Where in the seven hells does the Dark Lord finds people like this? They move aside and allow Draco to enter the room. Instantly, he feels an icy energy wash over him. As always, he tried not to register the discomfort that always came with being in the Dark Lord’s presence.

“Draco, my boy,” he drawled.

He hated that ‘my boy’ shite. After everything he’d had to do for the man, Draco certainly didn’t feel like a ‘boy’ anymore.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I called you in today?”

“Not at all, my lord,” Draco answered with prompt politeness. “I am ever at your beck and call.”

The Dark Lord laughed. The sound made Draco’s skin crawl. “You Malfoys seem to always know exactly what to say.” Draco pushed all emotion aside at the implication there. He might not have said it, but Draco knew the Dark Lord was lumping him in with his father. And it was true. Lucius always knew the right thing to say. This is why he remained in the Dark Lord’s inner circle, and had been ever since the Ministry fell.

Seven years. In that time, Lucius had become someone Draco didn’t recognize. He’d _Avada_ himself before he ever became his father.

“But I did not call you here to exchange pleasantries, Draco.”

Somewhere in the depths of Draco’s mind, he scoffed. _This is pleasant?_

“I thought,” the Dark Lord said, “that you would be happy to know we captured the Weasley boy. Potter’s right-hand man.”

Draco’s breath froze. Weasley. The ginger git who had ridden on the coattails of Potter’s mediocrity since he was eleven years old. With his quick temper and uncouth manner, Draco had loathed him even more than Potter.

“Does this please you, Draco?”

“It is splendid news, my lord.”

It was the very opposite of splendid news. Draco didn’t care one way or another what happened to Weasley, but he realized that his capture might possibly lead them to the rest of the Order. Draco would die before that happened. He’d suffered too many nightmares where he’d been forced to kill Her. “Might I ask how you achieved this?”

The Dark Lord smiled to reveal every last one of his stubby, blackened teeth. The sight made Draco feel sick to his stomach, but luckily, he was a master at compartmentalizing his physical urges. “One of your Snatcher spies finally pulled through. Rowle, I believe his name is. He’d been tracking something in the Forest of Dean for several months when he came across Mr. Weasley scavenging for food in a nearby village.”

“I will be certain to reward him,” Draco said, the lie so natural it nearly convinced even him. Rather than reward him, Draco would take extra care to make sure Rowle stayed off his back. This would be his reward for showing he was a competent spy-- Draco’s undivided, malicious attention. The last thing he needed was someone digging into his own life.

“Mr. Weasley is to be executed tomorrow morning,” the Dark Lord said.

Draco nodded. This was the custom. Twenty-four hours capture. That’s it. That’s all they got if the prisoner proved to be of no use to them. As sick as it may be, Draco was relieved to hear this. It meant Weasley wasn’t as gormless as he always supposed. He wouldn’t give away anything.

“It is my hope that his death will draw out some of the other vermin hiding in the cracks.”

“I cannot imagine it will not, my lord,” Draco said.

The Dark Lord leaned in to examine Draco closer. His wicked eyes narrowed in appraisal. “You’re a laconic young man, aren’t you, Draco?”

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but, ironically, found he had nothing to say. He closed his mouth before opening it again. “Yes, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord laughed a silky, throaty laugh that made Draco’s toenails shrivel in his boots. “You amuse me so, Draco. Would you care to interrogate the blood traitor yourself?”

Draco bowed slightly. “Nothing would give me more pleasure, my lord.”

They didn’t even taste like lies anymore.

___________________________

 

Draco stood before the young man he bullied in school with apparent stoicism. Nothing could have been further from the truth, however. Every cell in his body screamed for him to ask the questions to which he longed to know the answers.

Was She happy?

Was She healthy?

Was She with anyone?

“Get up, Weasley.”

The red-haired man glared at Malfoy with the vitriol of one who had harbored nothing less than burning hate for him since the moment he met him. He chuckled darkly. His voice full of acid when he spoke. “So, they’ve sent you to kill me.” His voice was thin like he had been kicked in the throat. “Isn’t that just fucking perfect? Killed by a ferret.”

“Better a ferret than a weasel.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

The redhead was testing his patience, but Draco was every inch the aristocrat. Unlike the Dark Lord, he did not enjoy playing with his food, which should have been evidence to everyone from the beginning of the man’s poor breeding. No matter your moral laurels, it was simply bad manners. “I’m not here to kill you, Weasley.”

“You’re not?” He didn’t seem affected one way or another by this news. “Why not? You remember me from school. You remember how much we hated each other.”

“Of course, I remember. I never forget a face. Especially when it’s as ugly as yours.” With a slight twitch of his wand, Weasley was thrown on his feet and gracelessly flung against the wall. “Were you alone, Weasley? When you were caught on your little outing?” His voice cut like acid. The apple doesn’t fall far from sociopathic, poison tree. “Your last outing, as chance would have it.”

Ron glared into Draco’s cold, gray eyes, his blood boiling with pure hate. “I’d sooner suck your master’s cock before I told you a damn thing, Malfoy.”

Draco chuckled. He doubted the Dark Lord even had a cock. It would explain how he had managed to remain so obstinately immune to danger. His imperviousness to base desires made him impossible to manipulate. Draco had seen more than one ambitious woman try to throw themselves at the Dark Lord in hopes that he would bring them power. But the Dark Lord had never been moved by something as ephemeral as a pretty face. “I doubt you’re his type, Weasley, but I’m sure he’d appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“Piss. Off.” Ron glowered at Draco as he slunk to the floor.

“Still can’t take a joke, Weasel. Nothing about you has changed. You’re still the same abhorrent stack of shit you always were.” Draco squatted on the floor so he could be eye to eye with the prisoner. “I’m not going to torture you, arsehole. And I don’t give a shite about your precious leader. I only came here to tell you that if you crack under pressure while those other fuckwits are tearing out your fingernails and scorching your balls, and tell them _anything_ about Her, I will personally track down every last member of your freckled little family and crucify them.”

Ron spat in his face.

Draco retrieved a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped his face. He tutted. “And I see you still have no manners.”

“She told me, you know. About you. She told _both_ of us.”

Draco’s breath hitched. What exactly did that mean?

“She told me how you played with her and threw her away once you were finished. Funny, I think she felt _sorry_ for you. But I know the truth.”

“Oh, yeah? And what is that?” He bit through tight lips.

“You’re a hollow vessel, Malfoy. You couldn’t possibly care about anything but yourself.”

Draco was on him like a wild animal, holding him by the throat and pushing him on his back. “You think you know me, Weasel?” Draco had burned in Hell for Her every day for the past seven years. “You have _no_ idea.”

Weasley’s laugh came out croaky and strangled under the grip of Malfoy’s hands around his throat. “She’d never have you now. Not after everything you’ve done.”

Draco released a breath. “I know that.”

Weasley’s hardened eyes softened in confusion. “Then why?”

Draco scoffed. This pathetic little man had the audacity to school _him_ on matters of the heart? Just because Draco couldn’t have Her didn’t mean he still wouldn’t open his veins for Her. As long as She still lived and breathed, he had a reason to keep going. To watch from afar. To not take the vial of poison locked in his study drawer which beckoned so seductively at him. He could protect Her from this side of the war. “It doesn’t matter. As long as She lives, She might…”

He couldn’t quite say it. He could hardly even _think_ it. There was no man in the world who would possibly be as devoted to Her and love Her as deeply as he himself could, but since it wasn’t an option, he accepted a long time ago that it didn’t matter who made Her happy. As long as She was. “The only thing that matters to me is that She is alive and well.”

Ron nodded. “She is.”

“Good.”

“She’s with Harry. She _loves_ Harry.”

Through the deafening silence between the two men, Draco heard his heart break in two. So, that was it then? She was with Potter.

Draco’s face felt heavy and full. He wanted to cry and rip Weasley, the Messenger’s face off to use it as a handkerchief.

 _Potter_. The impossibly smug orphan who seemed to get _every damn thing_ he had ever wanted.

Draco’s childhood rival.

It was so bitter—it was almost poetic.

Draco’s jaw clenched. “As long as She’s happy.” He turned to leave. There was nothing more to say to the Weasel.

“Malfoy.”

Draco turned to face Weasley one last time. “ _What_?” he asked harshly.

Weasley scowled at what he was about to ask of this man he had hated all his life. “You won’t let them hurt her, will you?”

Draco released a heavy breath at the question. “Never.”

Weasley nodded once. The pact between the two men was fulfilled, and Draco left the dungeon with a heavy tread.

_____________________

 

That night, Draco dreamt his favorite dream.

A familiar voice cooing in a pleasantly whiny cadence, “ _Come back to beeed_.” A smirk. A head of sex-tousled hair. A swollen belly. A family. He looked in the mirror at his reflection expecting to see a man on the edge of heaven, and in an instant his favorite dream was ruined.

It was Potter’s face staring back at him. _He_ was Potter.

He woke up with tear-stained pillows, like he always did when he dreamt of Her.

Such sweet torture.

___________________________

 

Draco shook off the residual weakness the dream had left in his bones as he dressed and drudged to the dining room for his morning coffee. A fresh Daily _Prophet_ lay next to his breakfast, just as it did every morning.

Plastered across the front page was a photo of Ron Weasley’s corpse swinging from the top of the Ministry building, body picked over by crows.

Draco would never know that the last words he ever spoke to Ron were of some comfort to him before he died.

Then again, he probably wouldn’t have cared either way.

_____________________________

 

She was all wrong, really, but at that moment, Draco didn’t care as he thrust mercilessly into the curly-haired prostitute.

For one thing, her smell was completely off. It wasn’t bad—the typical sharp, too sweet scent that women of her profession often donned—but it wasn’t the right smell.

Second of all, she sounded wrong. Her moans were a little too wanton, a little too loud, and, he suspected, a little too inspired by the hefty amount of gold he had given her just before she sank to her knees before him. But despite their many discrepancies, their biggest sin was that they came from the wrong woman.

He remembered Her sighs; suppressed joy, spring rain, and a tear. Once, when She came, She laughed. She hadn’t been expecting it, and its sneaky force amused Her. The last time, She cried. She’d tried to hide it from him. She thought he didn’t see.

Sometimes her body would shake for minutes after while the two exchanged silent kisses as they caught their breaths, a fever thrumming between them. Draco would hold Her after until she fell asleep. When She woke up, he still didn’t want to let Her go.

“What’s wrong, love?” the girl asked.

Draco didn’t realize he stopped moving. He looked down at the All Wrong Girl. The Not Her Girl.

He frowned. “Nothing.” He slid out of her. “You should go.”

“But you didn’t finish.”

“What do you care?” he asked as he poured himself a Firewhisky. “You still got paid, right?”

She scoffed as she scrambled to put her clothes back on. “If it helps, I can charm my eyes brown, like last time.”

He took a deep sip of the Firewhisky, welcoming the burn as it abused his throat. “ _Go_. I won’t say it again.”

She shook her head. “Fine. But it’s not polite to make a lady feel she’s not done her job properly.”

“Good thing you’re not a lady, then,” he muttered, sipping his Firewhisky, his back turned away from her.

After he heard the door close, signaling she had left, he sank down into his armchair throwing back the contents of his Firewhiskey. He was still naked. He didn’t care.

The prostitutes were always a mistake. And it could be said he had a type among them. Small, petite, curly brown hair.

It felt disgusting to try to imprint Her image onto them. It was low. But it helped, sometimes. If he could not have love he could at least find a warm body to get lost in for a half hour or so. He could lose himself in a fantasy and for a moment he could breathe again. Then, of course, he’d awake from his fantasy and realize the girl, whoever she was at the time, was not Her. He always hated that moment when he’d wake up. His chest would ache and suddenly he didn’t want to shag anymore.

He swirled the Firewhisky in his glass and gulped. The bright caramel color of Her eyes.

He remembered when he first noticed them.

_____________________________

 

_“Why the fuck would Granger matter that much to someone like Krum?” Goyle asked._

_Draco barely heard him, so focused was he on the exquisite naiad he had bullied for the past three and a half years as she emerged from the Great Lake wearing a silver bathing suit that clung to her lithe figure. He clenched his jaw as Krum fussed over her and draped a blanket over her form, shielding it from Draco’s hormonal eyes._

_Draco felt like he was under some sort of spell when he noticed Granger’s nipples were hard through her bathing suit. His eyes met hers for a split second, but it was enough for him to realize that she possessed the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen in his life. Lighter than chocolate, yet darker than his sable leather bag, they took him captive in that moment._

_That single moment of serene._

_Were her eyes always so big? It hardly seemed possible that they could make him feel lost and safe all at once._

_A breeze blew through the area surrounding the lake, and Granger shivered, pulling the blanket closer to her. Viktor Krum noted her distress and snuggled her into his side, tucking her hair behind her ears and running his hands down her arms to ensure she was warm enough. Draco involuntarily drew his hands into fists as he observed the two._

_Viktor Krum was, like himself, a pureblood prince. Unlike himself, Krum didn’t seem concerned about the blood status of the girls who caught his attention. Were things different in Bulgaria?_

_Granger scrunched the blanket further up her body, and Draco could see the exposed skin of her creamy legs covered in gooseflesh. There was nothing obscene about the bathing suit, but Draco had still never seen so much of a witch before. Her eyelashes fluttered like butterflies, casting a shadow over the soft skin of her cheekbones. Her pinkened lips rubbed together to stimulate blood flow, and Draco felt his heart loosen from his chest._

 

Uh-oh _, his inner voice said._

 

Draco, you are in big trouble. 

___________________________

 

Draco threw the glass at the wall. It was no use reminiscing. She was Potter’s now.

 

And his trouble was just beginning.


	2. The Backbone, the Brain, and the Beautiful Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, beta love to my lovely friend, SaintDionysus

Hermione stood close to the edge of the overlook, staring out into the expanse with the wind whipping her face.

She looked east to London.

The Ministry’s policy was famous. Twenty-four hours to prove their usefulness before they die. Even if it weren’t for the confirmation of the event on Potterwatch, Hermione would know Ron was now dead. He would have let them flay him alive before he gave anything away.

She mourned her friend silently. Crying wasn’t an option anymore, not that she didn’t want to. She just hadn’t been able to cry in years.

The dryness on her face mocked her. No matter what convention required, her sadness wasn’t any less real because of it. Ron had been one of her best friends for nearly thirteen years. For nearly half her life, he had been a fixture in it. He always knew how to make her laugh, even when the days were darkest.

Now he was gone, and she couldn’t cry. Another cruelty of this new world.

“Hermione?” She turned around to find Harry emerging from the clearing in the trees. He smiled sadly at her. “Are you alright?”

“No,” she answered simply. “And neither are you.”

Harry approached her gingerly, knowing she liked to have her space. Finding no overt tension in her body language as he edged closer, he hugged her in a tight embrace. “I should have sent someone with him. I should have—”

“Don’t do that. We both know it’s bullshit. You did everything you could.”

Harry wiped his eyes, and Hermione’s eyes followed the motion jealously. “I should have torn the Ministry apart to get him back.”

Her face hardened. “That would be the most impossibly thick move you could pull right now. It’s what they expect. Please, just…” She sighed. She hated that in this moment of mourning, she couldn’t help but feel a tad bratty at resenting Harry’s self-pity. She loved Harry, but his hero-complex could, at times, be extremely grating.

Of course, his hero complex was the reason the Order still survived, so she couldn’t complain too much. But she worried that Harry’s backbone would one day be his demise, just like Ron’s goodness had been his. If Ron hadn’t gone on a supply run when Teddy Lupin came down with a fever, he’d still be alive.

Another man in her life she had lost.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Harry said.

“I very much doubt that.”

He rubbed up and down on her arms. “You’re worried _he_ had something to do with it.”

She froze. Until that moment she hadn’t allowed herself to wander down that prickly rabbit hole. Losing Ron was bad enough. She couldn’t imagine losing him at the hand of someone she lov… _used_ to love.

The shadow of a tear threatened her, burning behind her eyes. “I hadn’t thought, honestly.”

Harry leaned in and kissed her lightly. “I don’t want to upset you. But I feel I should tell you that my sources say he’s recently been promoted to Lieutenant. That means he’ll be leading searches from now on.”

Any other man would stubbornly pretend their lover didn’t have a past. Not Harry. He was too noble. He didn’t begrudge Hermione’s past love. He didn’t even begrudge the fact that she probably still loved him to a certain degree.

Like Ron, he was too good for this world.

Hermione nodded, her eyes fixed on a spot in the clouds so far east, it might have even hovered over London. It was all she could do; focus on the spot.

_Don’t think about Him. Not today._

“Thank you for telling me, Harry.” She slipped out of his arms and walked back through the clearing to camp. She knew he’d respect her need for space too much to follow her, though he’d desperately want to.

As much as she’d mastered compartmentalization over the years, she couldn’t fight the thoughts that threatened to end her dry streak and unleash the dam of tears that had built up over the years.

Would He ever hurt her? She honestly didn’t know anymore, but there was a time He had loved her. What they had was real.

It _had_ to have been real.

_______________________

 

_He kissed the top of her head and hummed contentedly as his fingers danced delicately over her flushed, sensitive skin; skimming over her hip, making their smooth accent over her stomach, before deftly cupping her breast. She bit her lip to stifle a giggle. He was such a guy._

_His eyes were wistful and focused on the movement of his fingers as they skipped over her flesh. “You have the softest skin,” he said in his sex-smoothed voice._

_Her heart skipped several beats. She hadn’t been expecting compliments that didn’t pertain to her sexual organs or performance in bed. He threw her slightly off guard. “Um...thank you.”_

_He chuckled throatily. “You’re welcome, Granger,” he said in a deep, clipped voice that took on an amused tone of formality._

_“Don’t make fun of me. You bullied me for years about my hair, my teeth, my—”_

_“_ _No need to remind me. I was there too.” He sighed. “Merlin, you are shite at pillow talk, you know that?”_

 _“_ _Oh, so is that why you’re being so sweet to me right now? Pillow talk?”_

_He rolled his eyes and pulled her as close as possible. They were skin to skin with nothing between them except the everything they were becoming to one another. “I have a lot to make up for. All those years I teased you were wasted.” He kissed her lightly on the lips before pulling back and capturing her eyes with his. “You’re goddamned beautiful.” He leaned in and stole another kiss from her, this one deeper. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise.”_

_All the blood reserved for her brain traveled to her face. She couldn’t move except for the involuntary parting of her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered._

_He grinned from every corner of his face as he strummed the pad of his thumb across her cheek. “You’re very polite after sex. Maybe I should just always keep you in a post-coital haze.”_

_She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you, Malfoy?”_

_He smiled serenely at her and tucked a curl behind her ear. “I’d love to have you any way you’d let me.”_

_Hermione’s insides fizzed in delirium at his words. As lovely as they were, what blew her away the most was the sincerity of the words. They meant more to Hermione than any words anyone had ever said before. In the moments following their lovemaking, basking in the afterglow of Draco’s disarming affection, Hermione felt as boneless and sated as she did during the peaks of the pleasure she had climbed only moments earlier with him._

_He was so lovely like this._

_She wished she could keep him always._

_______________________________

 

A nipping gust of wind clipped at her face, bringing her back to reality.

She shouldn’t torture herself with the past. Gone were the days she could stand in the sun with no fear. This cold, gray forest was her life now. No use pretending otherwise.

She sighed in frustration. She had promised herself she wouldn’t think of Him today. Fighting a bubble of disgust with her self-indulgence, she sat on a log in a clearing to gather her bearings. Things were bad. There was no denying it. Losing Ron wasn’t just personally devastating. It would be a setback for the Order. Those who were left looked to herself, Ron, and of course, Harry for guidance. Harry might have been the icon, but Ron was the light. He had a way with people that neither Harry or herself possessed. He managed to keep spirits up when the days were bleakest. He knew the names of every single person at their camp, and a fair few at the others scattered across Great Britain. He threw birthday parties for the children. He was always the first to volunteer for supply runs.

Now he was gone. Who would fill his shoes? No one else had his obstinate hope; his boundless internal assurance that they would ultimately win this war.

Now he’d never live to see it happen.

Rocking back and forth on the log, she felt her body tremble the way bodies did when one wept. But the tears still wouldn’t come. Her head was fuzzy, her body shook with nervous energy, and she even felt the wet burn behind her eyelids, but still, no tears came.

“Fuck!” she angrily threw a rock into the distance.

This was wrong. All of it. Ron was supposed to be here with them. She and Harry couldn’t do this without him.

She had always joked that together, she, Harry, and Ron made a full person. Harry was brave, Hermione was clever, and Ron was good.

Bravery and cleverness might get them to the finish line, but they needed goodness to win the war. They needed to know that they would still be human beings after all was said and done. They needed hope. They needed a reason to keep fighting. The goodness within people—Ron’s goodness—it was a personification of everything they stood for.

“How do we get it back?” she asked no one. “Why should we bother?”

___________________________________

 

An hour or so later, Hermione made it back to camp. The second she pulled back the flap to hers and Harry’s tent, her body froze.

“What are you doing?” she asked the dark-haired man as he stuffed a rucksack full of several days worth of food provisions, a blanket, several pairs of socks and pants, his toothbrush, and a water bottle. His Firebolt lay purposefully next to the rucksack on the cot.

Harry bit his lip sheepishly. “Hermione, I—”

“Don’t bother answering. I _know_ what you’re doing.” She wanted to hurt him for it, but she knew it wouldn’t be what Ron would have wanted. She wanted to thrash and punch and make him bleed. Surely he wasn’t serious. Perhaps it was just the grief. He wasn’t in his right mind. But grief or not, Hermione was not feeling very judicious with her sympathy.

“Could you for once try not to make a stupid decision? This is what they want! It’s exactly what they were hoping to accomplish in giving him such a public death. If you go now, you’ll just playing into their hands.”

“Hermione, I _have_ to do this.”

“ _Bullshit_. That’s what you always say when honor calls. And I always sit back and let you do whatever stupid thing you’re going to do because I know you’re too goddamned stubborn to be talked out of it. But today I won’t sit back and watch you hand yourself over to them. I _won’t_ lose you too, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “Don’t you want revenge, Hermione? They killed our best friend!” his voice was cracking either from grief or exhaustion. Hermione didn’t care either way.

“This is war, Harry. People die. There’s not a single person in the Order who hasn’t lost someone they love. If it’s revenge you want, there will be a time for it, but this is not it.”

“Hermione, I—”

“Please.”

She let that one word hang between them for a moment. He seemed startled by it. It wasn’t often he saw her this vulnerable. “Stay. I need you.”

For a minute, she thought she really might cry. She felt like it. She felt like throwing herself on the cot they shared and wailing into the pillow for the next few hours. But she didn’t. All she could do was stay glued to the spot with her brown eyes, glassy from the tears that refused to fall, and beg him to choose _her_ in this moment.

He sighed. “I’m sorry.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “I promise I’ll be back.” He kissed her again, harder this time. He didn’t seem to mind that Hermione wasn’t responding to his touch. “I love you. I’ll be back before you know it. I promise.”

Several minutes passed after he left before Hermione moved or spoke. “You can’t promise that,” she said to the empty room. “Nobody can promise anything anymore.”

_________________________________________

 

Harry told himself that Hermione would understand, but he didn’t need to be a genius to know it wasn’t true. She felt he had abandoned her.

He would just need to be careful. Hermione always told him he took too many unnecessary risks. She assumed he didn’t listen when she admonished him for it. But he did listen. He knew he had a reckless streak, and he knew he needed to keep it in check.

Apparition was too risky. There was no guarantee his normal spots hadn’t been discovered. His London contact disappeared months ago, so he had no one on the other side to make sure he was clear. Flying, however, under the guise of a Disillusionment Charm was foolproof. It would be a long journey, and he would be exhausted by the end of it, but it was safe. And Hermione needed him safe.

As he mounted his Firebolt and began his journey, he realized he didn’t exactly have a plan.

 _Harry, you fuckwit_ , the internal voice that sounded an awful lot like Hermione chastised him. _You think you can just barge in the Ministry and start slaughtering Snatchers?_

Well…yeah. That was sort of the idea. And in addition to the fact that it would be extremely thirst quenching, it would be useful to the Order in the long run.

The Snatchers were a problem. They were a brotherhood of half-feral spies who got off on the fear of their prey. The Order had lost three times as many good people to the Snatchers than they had the Death Eaters.

But the Death Eaters had structure in their ranks. They had a purpose. An ideology. They had a leader.

The Snatchers just liked the smell of blood. They were scattered. Their leaders were purely symbolic. There was no hierarchy in the Snatchers. They recruited the most depraved, the least subtle. Many blood-thirsty bastards who didn’t have the blood status to take a Mark became Snatchers instead. Their inferiority complex was their hallmark, and it made them dangerous. The few Snatchers who were based in the Ministry would have been involved in Ron’s capture. That fucking creep, Rowle, was undoubtedly directly responsible. Harry’s hands seized the handle of his broomstick till Harry could see the whites of his knuckles.

Rowle. He hated the man almost as much as he hated Voldemort. Rowle had a reputation of depravity. He liked to watch his victims squirm—women particularly. He liked them young, vulnerable, scared. It was no secret that Rowle’s dearest ambition was to get his hands on Hermione—to break the Mudblood Bitch. The Order spies who were able to gather the precious little information they could on Rowle, reported back to Harry his most defining characteristics: he was relentless, he was certifiably insane, and he lusted like the devil after Hermione Granger.

A fateful trifecta.

Harry wanted to rip his spine from his body.

He breathed deeply, trying to calm his temper. Hermione wouldn’t want him to burst into the Ministry guns blazing, and that’s exactly what he’d probably do if he didn’t cool his hot head.

Hours later, when he finally arrived, he dismounted in a narrow alleyway, several blocks away from the Ministry. Shrinking his broom down to a more compact size, he stored it in his rucksack and refreshed his Disillusionment Charm. Carefully, he walked until he approached the side of the most famous building in Great Britain; The Ministry of Magic.

The building that had been known, until seven years ago, as Buckingham Palace.

___________________________________

 

Draco rolled his eyes as he rounded the corner to Snatchers’ Division. He swore that as he got closer to their domain, the air smelled more like wet dog. Fenrir Greyback was the Head Snatcher, and Draco would have bet half his fortune that mangy old fuck marked everything in this wing with his scent. For one wild moment, Draco had a momentary urge to whip out his cock and have a piss right on the doorframe of the Division marker.

Greyback would go mental.

But as much as inciting the wrath of that glorified guard dog would delight him, Draco had other matters to attend to. He sure as hell wasn’t anxious to spend more time than necessary around the Snatchers—a bunch of hammerhead arse-grabbers with perpetual chips on their shoulders. As a Death Eater Lieutenant, he was senior to all Snatchers and even had a few placed directly under his command. Thorfinn Rowle was one of them. It was he Draco came to see, as Rowle was the one who caught Weasley.

Draco knew nothing about the man, never having believed the Snatchers to be people of much consequence in the Dark Lord’s new order, but he hated him already on principle alone.

A man who could catch Weasley was a man who could catch Her. Weasley might not have been the brightest bulb in the drawer, but he had still managed to elude the Snatchers for seven years, all while bearing the weight of the target the Ministry had on his back. Those years had sharpened him from the dim-witted boy Draco knew in school. If Rowle caught him, Rowle must be good.

Draco would need to watch him.

He nearly ran into a large, imposing figure storming out of an office and charging into Draco’s line of sight.

Draco drew himself up to make him feel taller and adopted the snootiest, most Malfoyesque sneer he could manage. “Greyback.”

The werewolf snarled lightly. “Malfoy.”

“That’s _Lieutenant_ Malfoy, now. Hadn’t you heard?” Malfoy’s eyes danced with mild mirth as he watched Greyback battle internally with whether it was worth risking the Dark Lord’s wrath to defy Draco the respect he was owed. To Greyback, Draco would always be a pampered little whelp who coasted on his family’s name.

“I heard.”

“Of course you did. I’ll bet you hear a lot with those ears of yours.”

Greyback glared his response. _All the better to sense your bullshit, you poncy little fucker_.

How this man ever thought he could have been a Death Eater, was beyond Draco. Even a blind man could read that ugly face. Even Weasley had possessed more finesse. “I’m here to speak with Rowle.”

“Rowle’s on a hunt.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “When he gets back, send him to my office.”

Greyback narrowed his yellow eyes at Draco. Draco leveled his face of all emotion, daring him to defy his order.

“Tempting, isn’t it? To tell me to fuck off? You want to say you don’t answer to a spoiled little pureblood brat like me, but even you are smart enough to know that isn’t true. The truth is, you do answer to me, Greyback. So why don’t you be a good dog and fetch Rowle for me when he gets back from his hunt?”

That was bold. Seniority or not, he didn’t need to make any enemies—especially not one like Greyback. He might be a mutt bastard, but he was a vengeful mutt bastard who crunched on the bones of his enemies.

Fenrir growled low in his throat. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you boy?”

“Well,” he smirked. “I am your superior.”

“In rank, maybe. But beneath your expensive robes and fine name, you’re just a butcher’s boy. Same as me.”

Draco raised a haughty eyebrow. He was right, of course. Lucius was a monster. He hadn’t expected the werewolf to be that perceptive. “Will you give Rowle my message, or not, Greyback?”

The werewolf sneered. “Don’t worry about that, _Lieutenant_ Malfoy. I’ll send your message.” His lupine gold eyes bore into Draco’s silver ones as he circled to pass him. When he broke contact, the air between the two wizards seemed to thin suddenly, each going about their business as if no confrontation had taken place.

Draco rolled his eyes. _Bloody sensitive, isn’t he?_

He pondered all the possible ways Greyback could seek revenge upon him for his perceived insolence. Not a single one was enough to have made him regret it. On the contrary, he was actually looking forward to doing it again.

There was a time Draco Malfoy had swagger. He’d glide through the halls of Hogwarts, and all the girls would swoon while the boys moved out of his way. He could cut through another person’s insecurities like softened butter. That Draco Malfoy always had a biting remark, a golden nugget of snark to throw in the face of those he perceived to be beneath him—which was pretty much everybody.

These days, he barely recognized himself. This Draco Malfoy was the errand boy of a demented half-blood lunatic—a job he’d inherited from his father. This Draco Malfoy kept his mouth shut and said not a word more than necessary in the presence of his colleagues.

As thoroughly repellant as he found Greyback—and all the Snatchers if he was being honest—he at least was able to regain a semblance of his old self in his presence. Draco was a Death Eater, a Lieutenant. Greyback was just a maggot at the top of the dung pile.

That said, he wasn’t too keen to encounter him _again_ on his way out of the Snatcher’s Wing.

Ducking down a little-used corridor, he found himself nearly incapacitated when he encountered the unmistakable fragrance of fresh air and sweat.

Draco froze. He wasn’t alone.

Over the years, he’d developed an unholy talent for watching his own back, as there wasn’t a single person he knew anymore to whom he’d ever consider entrusting the task. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

Draco wasn’t about to announce to that he had already discovered them. Instead, he continued, maintaining the same easy rhythm with which he always walked, and one hand at his side, fingers wiggling to grab his wand.

Draco’s blood froze when the smell of unwashed-recently-outdoors-human grew stronger. Without breaking stride, Draco tuned into the subtle echo of somebody walking right behind him, keeping rhythm with him as he moved. He resolved to walk faster. The pitter-patter of a second pair of feet grew stronger.

He was being followed.

He walked even faster, and his invisible companion continued to keep up with him. He walked faster, vaguely aware that he probably looked utterly ridiculous.

The two of them continued to move in tandem at an increasingly swift speed until suddenly Draco halted abruptly in the middle of the corridor.

“ _Ooof_ ,” said the thing making contact with Draco’s body.

Draco turned around, pewter eyes hard like smoky diamonds and pulled out his wand. “ _Petrificus Totalus_.”

Something roughly the size and weight of a large sack of meat hit the floor near Draco’s feet. He clenched his jaw and uttered held his wand steady at the area. " _Finite Incantatem_.”

The mystery companion revealed, Draco couldn’t fight the gravitational pull of his jaw to the floor.

“ _Potter_?”


	3. A Brave Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my friend and beta, SaintDionysus, I was able to get this chapter out to you all soon! I swear I'm working on my other WIPs as well, but this story won't leave me alone. I realize it's not my typical peaches and sunshine type of work, but this story means a lot to me. Thank you all for reading.

“ _Potter_?”

The black-haired man, frozen from the effects of Draco’s spell, looked different than Draco remembered him. His skin was weather-beaten and tanned. His frame was more muscular than it had been in his youth. But it was the hateful, pained look in his eyes that struck Draco as the most significant change in the wiry, gangly, pale, little dweeb he had been in school.

Draco glared with blank eyes at the frozen man on the other end of his wand. A million thoughts ran through his head. A million possibilities. “I’m going to release the spell now. Don’t. Make. A fucking sound.”

He silently released Harry from the body-binding spell, only to cast a different one in its place. “What the…?” Harry struggled as ropes tightened around his body.

“Didn’t I tell you not to make a sound?” Draco asked, his voice saturated with vitriol. “If I release you, you’ll run away and somebody far worse than myself will catch you.”

A silent battle raged behind Harry’s eyes. He considered his options, and after several moments, he gave a single, firm nod. But he never released the blond man from his verdant glare.

Draco’s glare echoed Harry’s. “You look like shit,” he said evenly.

Harry chuckled darkly. “You look exactly the same, Malfoy. Like a bloody fairy prince. The Death Eater trade must be treating you well.”

Draco clenched his jaw. Did Potter really have the audacity to try to _banter_ with him at a time like this? This man had to have been the stupidest person Draco had ever encountered—and he just had a run-in with _Greyback_. The Dark Lord would have Death Eaters and Snatchers scouring every inch of the city looking for Potter, expecting exactly this sort of belligerent idiocy after Weasley’s public execution. “What the fuck are you doing here, Potter?” He knew the answer, so it barely warranted asking.

Harry narrowed his eyes at the other man as if it was _his_ fault his best friend was dead. “I’m here for—”

“ _Don’t_ let the next words out of your mouth be ‘I’m here to avenge the Weasel.’”

Harry glared. “How dare you—”

“She’s not with you, is She?” Draco cut right to the case.

Harry’s facial muscles tensed. He never thought he’d find himself in such an impossibly uncomfortable situation; to run into his girlfriend’s Death Eater ex whilst traipsing on a failed revenge holiday. Yet here he was. “Of _course_ not. Merlin, I’m not…” he sighed. “She didn’t even want me to come.”

“And _why the fuck_ didn’t you listen to Her? She’s probably…” Draco choked on his words. It was torture, speaking to Potter about this. “How is She?” He spoke barely above a whisper.

Harry stared at a spot on the floor as he spoke. “How do you think she is? She’s devastated.”

“Then _why_ did you leave Her alone?” Draco practically spat the words.

Harry’s eyes widened angrily. “ _Fuck off_ , Malfoy! She’s not your concern anymore.”

Draco drew blood from his tongue as he bit down to prevent himself from throwing an Unforgivable at the twit. “I am _painfully_ aware of that, thank you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Malfoy. I didn’t mean to depress you.”

Draco chuckled humorlessly. “My life depresses me, Potter. You just piss me off.”

Harry smiled a closed-lip bitter replication of a smile. “If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with.”

He would never have any idea how sorely tempted Draco was to take him up on that offer. Draco had killed many times over the years, but never lightly. Unlike his colleagues, he derived no pleasure from the act. “If I were going to kill you, I’d have done it by now, Potter.”

“And I’m to trust the word of a Death Eater?”

“I don’t care if you trust me or not, Potter. But right now, I’m your fucking savior.”

“Really? Looks to me like you’re my captor.”

Draco shut his eyes tightly and grappled with the impulse to _Avada_ the arsehole on the spot. “If I release you from your bonds, will you promise not to run away?”

Harry nodded, his eyes still piercing daggers into the blond wizard. Draco silently released the bonds, never allowing himself to dare hope that the raven-haired git would ever say ‘thank you.’

“I wonder if you gave Ron the same deal,” Harry spat.

Draco snorted. “I had nothing to do with The Eternal Sidekick’s capture, Potter.”

“What about his—”

“ _Or_ his death.” Merlin, Potter was predictable. The Dark Lord should pray he never did catch him. Even torturing him would be boring.

Harry seemed somewhat embarrassed that he made such an accusation—even if it was Malfoy. “Did you see him?”

Draco nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

“How was he…I mean was he…?” He sighed. “I’m not sure if I even want to know.”

“He was a bull-headed wanker up to the very end. You would have been proud of him. And so would…you would have been proud.”

Harry didn’t seem to know what to make of Draco at that moment. He knew the Malfoy heir wasn’t like other Death Eaters in that he did not share their ideology. He seemed to harbor no ill-will to Ron…other than the usual. But Harry believed him that he played no part in the demise of his best friend. “Did you speak to him?”

Draco nodded. “He was thrilled to see me, as you can imagine. Our reunion went similarly to yours and mine; with him accusing me of coming to kill him.”

“Why _don’t_ you? Seriously, Malfoy. Showing me mercy won’t exactly put you in Voldemort’s favor. Not to mention the fact that you hate me and you’re in love with my girlfriend.”

Draco’s heart sped up for a moment when Potter mentioned Hermione. But he considered Potter’s words. What was the endgame here? He wasn’t entirely certain why. He just knew he didn’t want the man dead. He shrugged. “If you’re going to kill a man, you should just do it. You shouldn’t tell him you’re going to do it first. And you sure as hell shouldn’t stand in a corridor and have a chat with him about it.”

Well, would you look at that? Malfoy has principles. Turns out he wasn’t a carbon copy of that Machiavellian caricature of a father of his.

He was, however, just as ruthless. Harry had recognized it in the blond wizard when they were eleven years old—Draco Malfoy had a talent for survival. He did whatever was necessary to save his own skin. Knowing this, Harry didn’t expect him to show any mercy now that he had caught him. No amount of lingering love the other man might have had for Hermione would save him. It hadn’t been enough to make him leave with her when he had the chance seven years ago, and it wouldn’t be enough now.

“That’s a nice sentiment. If it’s all the same to you, Malfoy, I’d prefer you to one of those other sick fucks.”

Draco wanted to throttle him. “Are you just going to give up _that_ easily? What the fuck is wrong with you? You have… _everything_ waiting for you.” Draco’s voice cracked, and he took a moment to collect himself, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation with the thick-headed wizard he’d despised his entire life. “I thought you were a fighter, Potter.”

“I am.”

“You’re _not_. Just now you were so ready to die by my hand. You didn’t even have the decency to _beg_ for your life."

“I’d rather die than beg to the likes of you, Malfoy.”

Draco seethed as he approached Potter, stooping slightly, so the two wizards were face-to-face. “And what about _Her_? She’s already lost one of her best friends today, and you’re willing to put Her through losing you too all because you’re too fucking _vain_ to do what you need to survive?” Draco walked backward away from the wizard, as though he was too disgusted to share the same space as him. “You don’t deserve Her. Merlin knows what She sees in you.”

“Oh, because you’re such a prize yourself, Malfoy?”

Draco could have killed him with his bare hands at that moment if he didn’t know that it would utterly shatter Her. “No, Potter. I’m not. But I never claimed to be. And I’ve done a hell of a lot over the years to keep Her safe. I’m not proud of everything I’ve done, but I will _never_ apologize for any of it if it kept Her alive. You have no fucking idea what I would do for Her, Potter. And you? _You_ left her. She needed you, and you just abandoned Her to Her grief so you could fulfill some sort of bollocks honor code bullshit that would have gotten you killed if I hadn’t come along to save your pathetic arse.”

Harry’s jaw dropped slightly as he contemplated the blond’s words. The man wasn’t wrong. Harry realized that it was selfish of him to leave Hermione today of all days. But more than that, Harry was stunned. In that moment, he realized that the love he himself held for Hermione paled in comparison to the burning light of Malfoy’s eternal torch he carried for her. “You really do love her.” It was not a question.

Draco scoffed. “Don’t worry, Potter. I’m not going to try to steal Her from you.”

“No, I know that. It’s just…” he shook his head, unable to fully comprehend how this new narrative of Malfoy fit in with what he knew of the man. Allowing Harry to live was a risk that could cost Malfoy his life. Carrying an ever-burning torch for Muggleborn Enemy No. 1 and protecting her from afar was arguably an even bigger risk, as it was apparently one he had carried on for years. How Malfoy was still alive was a mystery. How he was still alive and not on the brink of insanity was an even bigger mystery. Harry sighed, trying desperately to will his brain from saying what he was about to say. “Come with me.”

Draco snorted. “Sure, Potter.”

“No, I mean it.” _Merlin_ , he hated this. “Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re a brave man, Malfoy.”

Draco scoffed at the very idea. “No, Potter. I’m not. I’m bloody terrified all the time. It’s the reason I drink so much.” _And fuck prostitutes that sort of look like your girlfriend_ , but he wasn’t going to admit that to Potter.

“Bravery doesn’t mean you’re not afraid. It means doing something _in spite_ of the fact that you’re afraid.”

Draco grimaced. “Merlin, you…” He rolled his eyes so hard they hurt. “You really are the most _abominable_ Gryffindor arsehole that ever lived, aren’t you?”

“Are you coming or not, Malfoy?”

“Not.”

“You can help us.”

“I would just be a liability, Potter. Believe me when I say, if you knew the things I’ve done, you wouldn’t even want to share the continent with me, much less a house. Or a camp base.” He shrugged. “Wherever the fuck you lot are living these days.”

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, steadying himself for what he was about to say. “Would you do it for Hermione?”

A shadow flickered across Draco’s face. He looked, for a moment, like a man in anguish. _Yes_ , he wanted to say. _I’d do anything to see Her again_. But what did he think was going to happen. He’d join Potter’s cause, and Hermione would fall back into his arms, not caring about all the horrible, vile things he’s done over the years? It was laughable. “You don’t seem to care that I’m still in love with Her.”

Harry shrugged. “Why would I care? I can hardly blame you. She’s not the sort of woman a man forgets.”

“And you’re not worried that I’d steal Her from you if I came back with you?”

Harry had considered this before he presented Malfoy with his offer. It was part of the reason it pained him so much to ask. He couldn’t say with one hundred percent certainty that he knew Malfoy wouldn’t be successful. Harry could tell Hermione still had feelings for Malfoy, despite the fact that she never talked about him. The pained look she would get on the rare occasion somebody brought Malfoy up said it all. It was the same look Malfoy wore when Harry asked him if he would join them for Hermione’s sake. “Of course, I’m worried, Malfoy. But you’re an asset. Some things are more important than personal relationships.”

Draco could understand that. He’d been telling himself for years that it was more important that She was happy than it was for the two of them to be together. He sighed. “I can’t go with you, Potter. I’d be of no use to you.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I _think_ I can spot talent when I—”

“I wasn’t finished.” Draco sighed. “I wouldn’t be of any use to you there. But I might be able to help you from here.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Draco swallowed. This really wasn’t the sort of conversation they should be having in an abandoned corridor. He couldn’t even believe he was having it at all. “You need a London contact.” _What_ the fuck was he doing? What possessed him to speak these words?

Harry nodded, “Bryson, my old contact hasn’t been seen—”

“In three months. I know.”

“How do you…?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m not going to give you all the quite _literal_ gory details, but let me just say, you chose your man well. Because this one did not talk.”

Harry took a silent moment to mourn Bryson. “Then you know how dangerous this will be. I can’t ask this of you.”

Draco snorted. “But you’ll ask me to run away and join the Order of the Phoenix?”

“This is more dangerous, Malfoy. This requires—”

“I _know_ what the job requires, Potter. You need someone who knows the city. Someone with inside information. Most of all, you need someone who can lie. Merlin himself couldn’t have picked a better candidate.”

Harry sighed. “I can’t ask you, Malfoy,” he repeated.

“You didn’t ask. I offered.”

Harry examined his former rival with new eyes. Everything he had learned about the man today shook him to his core. And he was right. He was the perfect contact. Harry shook his head in defeat. “I accept.” He hung his head and stared at a dull spot near his shoes. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I’m not doing it for you.”

“I realize that. But I’m grateful all the same.”

“You want to thank me? Don’t run off on suicide missions like this again. Why do you think Weasley’s death was public? They were hoping for something like this.”

It was exactly what Hermione had said. Harry knew he was right. It had been entirely too easy to get into the Ministry. “I know. But I can’t say I regret it because running into you actually turned out to be—”

“ _Don’t_ say something sappy and ruin it, Potter. If you hadn’t run into me, it would have been a total goat fuck. You were lucky. End of story.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll try to be more careful.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “This doesn’t make us friends, Potter.”

Harry chuckled. “Not even close.” He held out his hand for Draco.

The blond scowled at the offering. Hesitantly, he took Potter’s hand and shook it. His eyes were locked on their joined hands, shaking in shared acknowledgment that they were now on the same side.

The sheer implausibility of it stunned him.

“ _Fuck_.”

__________________________

 

Draco couldn’t sleep. Today’s events reeled inside his mind on a loop. Every time he arrived at the part where he offered to be Potter’s contact, he willed himself to have said something different. Or nothing at all.

What had he done?

The two of them agreed to meet again in a few days at a spot on the South Bank that was completely civilian-operated. Death Eaters and Snatchers tended to leave the area alone. From there, the two of them would go to Harry’s main supplier so Harry could pick up and so Draco would know where to go should Harry be unable to make it for any reason.

The Death Eater in him felt almost indignant that the Order should operate so well right under their noses. But that indignation only stretched far enough to meet Draco’s narcissism. Apparently, he was a failure of a Lieutenant if the Order had supplier right here in London that he never knew about. Maybe they were more of a threat to the Dark Lord and his regime than he realized.

Ultimately, Draco hoped the Order burned it all down. He, personally, had no loyalties other than to himself and to one person he decided years ago to love and never was able to stop.

Draco had badly wanted to ask Potter for details about Her. Specifically, he wanted to know if being the Order’s London contact meant he’d ever get to see Her.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, imagining what She might look like now. She was probably too skinny. Her once soft curves probably hardened into lean muscles. Her wild hair was likely chronically tangled. Skin that was once the finest porcelain had probably roughened from the elements.

He bet She was beautiful.

_________________________________

 

_After that Umbridge woman finally stopped talking, they were able to tuck into their food. Draco hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he was starving. Puberty ensured he was almost always starving these days. Starving and horny. But right now he was starving._

_T_ _heo wolf-whistled in the general direction of the Gryffindor table._ _“_ _Fuck me. Granger did a good job growing up this summer, didn’t she?”_

_Draco raised his head to see. His heart started beating wildly in his chest. She was resplendent in her almost sixteen-year-old body with her shiny curls and her pretty skin and her gaping-in-just-the-right-place Oxford, indicating that she had grown out as well as up. She mildly chided the Weasel for his barbaric table manners while she herself ate delicately with the grace befitting a pureblood, dabbing a napkin at the corner of her mouth._

_Her mouth._

_Sweet Merlin, her mouth._

_Her pink, wet, smart mouth with the bottom lip slightly fuller than the top and her demure little tongue subtly licking a drop of pumpkin juice, leaving a shiny trail on that swotty, bossy,_ glorious _little mouth._

_Draco wanted to bite down on that mouth._

_Great. Now he wasn’t hungry anymore. He was horny. It really was always one or the other._

_Theo leered openly at Granger. “What do you want to bet she’s fucking Potter?”_

_Draco grimaced into his pumpkin juice. “Shut it, Theo. You’re putting me off my food.” He glared over at the Gryffindor girl as she whispered something into Potter’s ear. “She’s not_ that _good-looking.”_

Draco, you fucking liar.

_Theo snickered. “What are you, bent? She’s fit as fuck, even if she is a Mudblood. That arse, those tits. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t want to bend her over the nearest flat surface and fuck her silly.”_

_Draco gripped his fork tightly. Theo had been his friend since they were in nappies, but hearing him talk like that about Granger did things to him he couldn’t fully comprehend. He felt fiercely protective of her at that moment. After all, she had been the object of his teenage fascination, even before she sprouted that fine rack she was failing at hiding under her Hogwarts uniform._

_Draco groaned into his steak and kidney pie. “Do me a favor, Theo, yeah?”_

_“_ _Sure,” he said, absentmindedly licking his fork with lascivious suggestion, never taking his gaze off of Granger._

_“Stay the hell away from her.”_

_Theo snapped out of his lustful Granger-fantasies and smirked at Draco. “Still want to pretend like you don’t have a thing for the Mudblood?”_

_Draco glared at him. “Tell the others, too.”_ _He returned his attention to his plate, intent on ignoring Theo for the rest of the evening._

_He couldn’t resist stealing another look at her._

_His heart stopped beating when he realized she was looking at him too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who follow my other work, you'll be happy to know I submitted Chapter 10 of An Indefinite Amount of Forever to my beta today. Thanks for your patience!


	4. Demimonde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta, SaintDionysus, as always, is my idol and rock. She suggested I let you guys know what I listen to when I write. There are a few things, but the one song I keep coming back to is Hans Zimmer's "Time" from the Inception soundtrack. This is something I revisit particularly when I write Dramione flashbacks.
> 
> You guys, I can honestly say I'm having the angsty time of my life writing this story. I'm so touched that you're all choosing to read it, even though it's not my usual humor/fluff piece. Thank you all!

Hermione sat on the cot she shared with Harry and tried to distract herself with a book. She read the same page twenty times before she threw it across the room.

Anger or fear? Which was the stronger emotion? Anger that Harry wouldn’t listen to her— _never_ listened to her—even though it was obvious to anyone with a brain that running off to the Ministry with a hot head was a guaranteed way to get himself killed? Or fear that it would happen; that he wouldn’t come back?

She’d never wanted to be wrong so badly.

What the _fuck_ was she supposed to do? Just sit back and wait for him to come back? To not come back? How long before she knew?

Ron would have gone after him. But she wasn’t Ron. She was the Brain, and the Brain knew better. Even if she succumbed to her Gryffindor urges and followed him, where would she start? Bryson had been missing for months, so there was no telling where Harry might be. Buckingham Palace was huge, even more so since the Statute of Secrecy had been abolished, and the Ministry magically enhanced the building. It was, essentially, a giant death trap.

She needed to get outside of her sad little tent, so she coerced Neville into sparring with her. Her mind wasn’t in it. He kept getting in hits that, had it been any other day, she could have blocked with her eyes closed.

And it wasn’t just her. The whole camp was fucked up. Ron’s death affected everyone, not just her and Harry. Already, their morale buckled under the crushing weight of his absence, which is why Hermione told no one Harry was missing. It wouldn’t do to make things worse until she had to. If Harry didn’t return by nightfall, she would lead a search party. But until that time, she wasn’t sure the camp could survive another blow, no matter how uncertain.

Sore and weak, she crawled into her cot and buried herself under every blanket she could find in hers and Harry’s tent. She cast a Warming Charm so she could feel enveloped and safe—like she was being held. She cast a Silencing Charm so no one could hear her if she finally were able to cry. Burrowed under the blankets, she closed her eyes and allowed herself a dangerous luxury.

A daydream.

She already knew it was a mistake, but she felt so alone. So, she surrendered her mind to her memories and remembered what it was like to feel.

_____________________________

 

_“What do you want?”_

_He shook his head. “Something I have no right to ask of you.”_

_“What. Do you. Want?” she demanded._

_He finally looked at her. She’d never seen his face so blank. “Run away with me.”_

_Her eye twitched. She knew she should be offended that he’d even ask, but she did tell him to say what he wanted. “You should want something smaller.”_

_His eyes frowned in defeat. “So, that’s a no then.”_

_“_ How _could you even ask me that?”_

_“Because I want you to be safe, Hermione! I want us to die when we’re old and gray, preferably in our bed.”_

_“We can still have that, Draco. But not like this.”_

_His bottom lip quivered. She had never seen anything so devastating. “That’s it then? You’re going to do this? You’re going to follow those two shit stains you call best friends into a fucking suicide mission, and there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”_

_She bit her lip. It wasn’t like that. It didn’t have to be like that. “Come with me.”_

_His head fell, and he said nothing for several minutes. Hermione felt her heart break for him when she watched him wipe his eyes on the back of his hand. “If you’re going to do this, then I’m going to protect you.”_

_She had never been so relieved in her life. The tight feeling in her chest that accompanied any thoughts of a life without him loosened. She remembered how to breathe. “Thank you,” she whispered, folding her arms around him. “You won’t regret it.”_

_He smiled sadly and held her as tightly as he could. “I’ll never regret anything I do for you.”_

________________________________

 

It wasn’t until she the next morning when she read His note that she realized what He meant. He would always protect her. And the best way He knew to do that, was on the other side of the war.

The memory hurt so badly she could feel it in her bones. Every part of her that had previously thrummed with anger towards Harry and the fear that he wouldn’t return, ached for what she might have had with Draco. But as deeply as this memory cut, the tears never came. There was no outlet for her hurt. Instead of releasing it, her body absorbed it. It crept into her cells, into her atoms. Every molecule of her bone marrow wailed in agony.

Why couldn’t she just have said ‘yes’ when He asked her to run away with Him?

She asked herself that all the time.

__________________________________

 

She didn’t hear him come in.

Her body, utterly exhausted, granted her the mercy of sleep. It was dark out when the covers lifted, and her eyes opened, greeted by the image of her prodigal lover.

“Hey,” he croaked.

She blinked, too tired to thrash and curse him for leaving her. “Hey.”

He stroked her face tenderly, and she allowed the contact. He looked as exhausted as she felt. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “You’re back. That’s all the matters.”

He sighed, relieved that she seemed to forgive him, but frightened of what he was about to say. “I have some news. And I’m not sure how you’re going to take it, so I need you to sit up, alright?”

Hermione immediately shot up out of the cot and stood before Harry. “What happened?”

“Hermione, please. Sit down.”

“ _What happened_?”

He swallowed deeply. _Just tell her_. “I was captured. By...Malfoy.”

Her heart stopped beating for a long moment. “You were captured?”

“I was captured, but he released me. I was lucky, really—”

“You’re _goddamned right_ , you were lucky, Harry!” Now that she knew he was alright, she surrendered herself over to her fury.

“Look, I know you’re upset, but Hermione…it’s alright. He…he’s going to help us. He’s going to be our London contact.”

Years of being on the run hardened her constitution. Had she been even the strong, willful girl she had been at Hogwarts, she would have fainted. As it was, she could only nod. “Well, that’s very nice of Him.”

“Hermione—”

“Harry, I can’t…please just…” It was going to happen. Any moment now, her dry spell would end, and she would explode.

He wished he could take everything she was feeling away from her. But it wouldn’t be right. She needed to know it all. “He asked about you.”

She hated herself for how his words soothed her battered soul. It wasn’t right to feel this much for someone else. It wasn’t fair.

_He asked about you._

Even the memory of Him was a temptation that made her want to abandon all the hard-earned discipline she’d honed over the years, all responsibilities she’s assumed, all morality, and run away. “Please, just come to bed, Harry. We can talk about this in the morning.”

He looked down at his travel-beaten clothes. “I probably don’t smell so great, right now.”

“I don’t care. Take off your clothes, Harry. And get into bed.”

Harry nodded, realizing that he hadn’t the right to argue. She would come to everything in her own time. He shrugged off his clothes and crawled into the cot with her. He tried to hold her, but she wouldn’t let him.

“No,” she said, simply.

He understood.

________________________________

 

London was a pit of vipers.

To the Death Eaters, secrets were the greatest currency there was. Say you caught someone with a secret—a Muggle mistress or a half-blood whelp—you’d control the timing of when that secret was revealed. You’d watch your back the entire time because they might get to you first, but still, you’d have power over them. Have a Snatcher or two on your personal payroll, and you could collect secrets. Collect enough, and you’d have riches even Lucius Malfoy couldn’t contemplate—at least in this new world.

That, or you’d be found floating on your belly in the Thames with a knife in your back.

This is why it was useful to have friends in this wretched _demimonde_. Sure, you couldn’t trust them, and they’d undoubtedly want something from you, but it was better than nothing at all. It was like insurance. You hoped you wouldn’t need them, but in the event everything went tits up, you wouldn’t want to be caught with your cock in your hands without one.

Draco’s survival tactic was simple. He was quiet.

It was fashionable to be quiet, especially if you were also tall and handsome, but most people couldn’t seem to master the art. Draco made it look easy. People kept him around because they assumed it meant he was trustworthy, or at least as trustworthy as one could be in a snake pit. But people often found his tight-lipped demeanor grating because he did not partake in gossip, which meant he kept his greatest currency under lock and key.

In this way, and this alone, Draco was grateful for his high upbringing. He knew how to think before speaking. Common sense to some, perhaps, but to others, it was a novel concept.

Draco understood that gossip started with the little people—people like Snatchers, even Muggles. In this world where magic-kind and Muggles lived side-by-side, each in their rightful place, the little people generated gossip. And people at the top refined it.

Draco despised them all.

Imagine a world where everyone was a Slytherin. If you asked an eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy what he thought of this idea, he’d demand you take him to this glorious new world right away. But now, Draco found himself longing for contact with someone who could look at him without assessing what they could use him for. He never thought it’d be the case, but he was almost excited to see Potter again, which was probably the most unforgivable thing about this new world.

To most, secrets were capital. Draco preferred competence.

All this to say, Draco was meeting with Rowle because Rowle was a sufficiently ‘little’ person who might prove useful to him. Now that he had joined the ranks of the foolhardy and offered himself as a sacrifice to Potter’s cause, he needed to participate in this game the deplorables of the underworld played.

He sat across from the ragged man, trying to get a measure of him. The first thing he noted was that Rowle didn’t seem to blink. It was profoundly unnerving, but Draco refused to react. If he could socialize with someone as uncouth as the Dark Lord, he could socialize with a Snatcher. The second thing he noticed was that the man looked like he had been carved from the fabric of the wilderness. His clothes looked too durable to be truly filthy, but it was evident he didn’t wash often—or partake in any type of grooming, really. He seemed bored to be there.

“I won’t beat around the bush, Rowle. That was damn fine work catching Weasley. You’ve proven yourself to be competent. I feel taken aback that I didn’t notice it before. You are, after all, under my command.”

Rowle shrugged, obviously apathetic about Draco’s opinion of him. “S’alright. I don’t expect the future Lord of Malfoy Manor to take notice of little ol’ me.”

Oh. So, it was like that? Draco tried not to feel disappointed that Rowle, like Greyback, was one of those reverse classist-types. It would have been so much easier to misdirect Rowle’s progress if he respected Draco even a little.

Draco smiled; close-lipped, small, and polite. “My mistake, of course. One which I will not make again. I called you here today because I’d like to know if there’s anything you need from me. Anything to make your job easier.”

Rowle looked around Draco’s office, mindlessly sucking air through his teeth. “And what could you offer me that I could possibly use? Galleons don’t mean nothin’ out in the wild.”

“I can get you more men. More supplies.” _Incompetent men. Shoddy supplies._

Rowle shrugged and inspected his filthy fingernails. “More men will just slow me down. And I take everything I need.”

 _What does this guy want?_ Draco wondered. He didn’t like having to interact with someone whose motivations he couldn’t see right away. “I’m curious. What makes you better than the other Snatchers?”

A wicked, crooked grin spread across Rowle’s graceless features. “They do it because it’s a bit of money. Bit of glory. I do it because I like it.”

 _Fuck me; this man is fucking dangerous._ “There’s certainly always something to be said for taking pride in one’s work.”

Rowle rolled his eyes. “I’m not a proud man, Lieutenant Malfoy. Just a focused one.”

“Focused on what, exactly?”

Rowle paused, as though he wasn’t sure whether or not to answer the question. A deranged gleam cast over his wild eyes, and he said, “Everyone wants to get their hands on Potter. You, the Dark Lord, your cunt of a father, no offense—”

“None taken.” It was, after all, a flawless assessment of his father’s character.

“—all the Death Eaters want to string Potter up and take him apart piece by piece. But I’m a simpler man. Potter’s no use to me.”

“What do _you_ want, Rowle?”

He smiled wickedly, and Draco saw every one of his filthy teeth. “I want that Mudblood Bitch Potter’s been fucking. And when I find her, I’m going to lay her open and fix it where she’ll never take a breath again without feeling me inside her.”

Never had Draco felt anything so intensely towards another person so suddenly as he did at that moment. One minute he was trying to assess the best way to crack the man’s demeanor, and the next he was fighting the urge to leap across his desk and rip his eyes out. He fought these violent instincts so hard, he felt his bones creaking with the effort to sit still. In a single moment, Draco had learned that all his paltry attempts at hatred paled in comparison to what true loathing really meant.

“You got a problem with that, sir?”

Draco realized how he must look. Face reddened from bloodlust, eyes sparkling with insanity, lips curled in a vicious snarl. “The only thing I care about is that you do your job. If you do it well, I see no reason to deny you your boon.” _I’m going to kill you. I’m going to break every bone in your body with my bare hands, and then I’m going to rip your still-beating heart from your chest._

“Is that all, sir?”

Draco released the death grip on the side of his desk. “Yes. Of course. You may go.”

He took a good look at the man leaving his office. It had been a long time since he’d really looked at someone. Memorized them. Imprinted them in his memory so he’d still know them even when he’d forgot his own name.

_You will die begging me for mercy. I will be your god._

___________________________________

 

_Draco arrived in the Slytherin Common Room after being subjected to a long and irritating tirade about Pansy’s summer in the French Riviera during prefect rounds. He wondered if he could convince one of the other prefects to trade partners with him. All he wanted was to collapse in his bed and speak to no one for at least twelve hours. As fate would have it, the scene awaiting him in the Common Room ensured this was not to be._

_“_ _Oi, Drake!” Goyle said. “You’ll never guess where I’ve been.”_

_Goyle was surrounded by the other Slytherin fifth year boys, and a few of the sixth and fourth years. They seemed to be hanging on his every word._

_Good for him._

_“_ _Pass,” Draco said, edging past the crowd to make his way to the staircase._

 _“Oh, but Draco,” Theo said, affecting an annoying tone he sometimes assumed when he knew something no one else did. “I think_ you’ll _find Goyle’s little adventure to be particularly_ tit _illating.”_ _Several of the guys sniggered at Theo’s choice of words._

_Draco rolled his eyes and turned to face his housemates. “What?”_

_Goyle’s face lit up, rapt with the prospect of Draco paying attention to him. He cleared his throat and began a story that, despite the fact that he had told it several times that evening, still held the attention of every male in the vicinity. “Alright, so I thought it’d be a good day for a bit of a fly, yeah?”_

_Draco nodded his head vehemently and swirled his index finger in a circular pattern, indicating that Goyle needed to speed up the story if he wanted Draco to stick around._

_“Right. So, I was on my broom, flying pretty high up on the other side of the castle, when I look over, and what do I see? The window to the Gryffindor fifth year girls’ dorm is open.”_

_Draco felt a sick whoop in the pit of his stomach, knowing exactly where this story was going, and why Theo seemed to be delighted that Draco arrived in time to hear it._

_“The Mudblood was in there changing, Drake. And you should have seen her. She was wearing a blue bra, and it was all lacy and_ gods _, Drake. Her tits. They were perfect. I ducked down just before she saw me, but I saw enough.”_

_Draco felt physically ill. The leering arseholes with whom he had the misfortune to share a House didn’t help the matter with their eager faces and their filthy minds laid open for all to see._

_Theo crossed his arms smugly. “You think you could put the memory in a Pensieve for us, Greg?”_

_“_ No on _e is putting_ anything _in a Pensieve,” Draco blurted out._

_Greg cowed at Draco’s outburst. “Look, Drake. I didn’t mean anything by it. I know she’s a Mudblood, so she’s off limits, but even you would have wanted to—”_

_“_ _We aren’t speaking of this,” Draco said, firmly. His authority in his House was indisputable, even with some of the older guys, due to his powerful surname. Several of the boys slumped their shoulders in shame._

_Draco narrowed his eyes at them. “I’ll tell you all what I told Theo. Granger is off limits. Don’t make me repeat it.”_

_Goyle nodded. “No Mudbloods, Drake.”_

_The other boys nodded their agreement. Satisfied with their responses, and grateful that they misunderstood his meaning, he sauntered off to his dorm._

_It disgusted him how jealous he was of Goyle._

_That night he dreamt of her naked. He woke up hating himself._  

_____________________________________

 

Draco was irritable.

His meeting with Rowle yesterday left him seething, and he had been out of sorts ever since. He never liked hearing men talk about Her like that. But even worse was when those men were like Rowle—men who would have found themselves in the dangerous patient section of the mental ward at St. Mungos had there been any justice in the world.

He stood at the spot he and Potter previously agreed upon, pacing anxiously. The area was clear, and there was no possible way he had been followed, but the sheer irrationality of what he was doing put him on edge.

After today, there was no turning back.

He wished he had a drink right now. Or a cigarette. He didn’t smoke, but the habit was more portable than his preferred method of stress reduction. Years ago it would have been unthinkable for a pureblood to smoke Muggle cigarettes, but in the Dark Lord’s new order, many things that were previously impossible had become commonplace.

To the surprise of many, the Dark Lord did not wish to exterminate Muggles. He only wanted them to take their ‘proper place’ in society—to serve witches and wizards. After all, somebody had to wait tables, sweep the streets, and perform service and menial labor tasks that were too common for wizards. As a result of Muggles and wizards living together in society, they picked up many things from one another. Muggles became accustomed to the new way of life—or at least they would if they wanted to live—and tried to make the most of it by living as quietly as possible. Wizards indulged in Muggle luxuries such as cigarettes, leather, even television. It was inevitable.

It was odd that Muggles, as purveyors of service and labor, were treated better than Muggleborns, who were often kept as pets or slaves for pureblooded wizards. Muggles were considered too exotic, too filthy for most wizards, but Muggleborns were fair game. The knowledge that Hermione Granger would be the most coveted pet of all, as Queen of the Mudbloods, made Draco’s blood boil. He’d burn the world down before he’d let that happen. He was just about to leave, when he heard the distinct pop signaling someone had just Apparated come from behind him.

“About time you showed. I was just about to—”

In all Draco’s life, he had never been less prepared for anything as he was at that moment. It didn’t seem real. It _couldn’t_ be real. He gaped at the figure before him, his ability to speak completely evading him.

“Hello Draco,” Hermione said.


	5. A Promise Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait! Work, life, other stories, etc. If you ever feel like I’m taking a little too long to update, take solace in the knowledge that this story is never far from my mind. I think of it constantly. It’s really only a matter of finding the time to sit down and write. 
> 
> This chapter comes to you, lovingly betaed, by SaintDionysus. Enjoy!

He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He had _not_ been prepared for this.

But sweet Circe, She was every bit as glorious as he imagined with Her dark eyes and Her hair wilder than ever. He imagined She didn’t spend much time on vanity these days, not that She ever did. There was a wild look in her eyes, like She couldn’t decide between bolting and beating him to a pulp. But Merlin, She was beautiful to him.

He tried to speak, but his voice came out in a croaky whimper. “Hermione.”

*

She was in Hell being here with Him. How did she ever think this was a good idea? Why did she ignore that little flash of brokenness in Harry’s eyes when she insisted she be the one to meet Draco? The idea was that this would bring her closure. But standing here before Him after all these years, she was torn between the twin urges of beating Him to within an inch of His life and throwing herself into His arms. The way He was looking at her suggested He’d accept either option.

He looked…good. Same expensive robes, silky blond hair, and perfect-cut jawline. Damn it all; this would have been so much easier if He had gotten fat. What possible right did He have showing up here looking the way He did? She knew she must look a fright. Technically, she _owned_ a hairbrush, but rarely touched it. Her hair, which had always been a holy terror, was now entirely feral. It did what it liked now, and usually, she was okay with that. But right now, she sorely wished she had thought to run it through her hair a few times before showing up.

She just wasn’t expecting Him to look so delicious. It had obviously been a long time since she had been alone with a man who showered and shaved as regularly as Draco. That’s all it was. Nice grooming. What woman didn’t respond to a well-groomed man? She had no doubt if she moved a bit closer to him, He would probably smell good too.

“It’s been a while.”

*

He nodded, still unable to look at Her with any sort of subtlety. He opened his mouth to say something, _anything_ to Her, but words evaded him. What exactly should he say? _Please forgive me. I never wanted to hurt you. I adore you._

Suddenly, he wished he had put on cologne before he left. No sooner had he thought it, did he chastise himself for it. _She doesn’t care what you smell like, you buffoon. She’s not here to snog you._

*

 _What is He thinking?_ He looked uncomfortable. She _felt_ uncomfortable.

Her eyes flickered to His left arm. “Do you really have a Dark Mark now?” She couldn’t help but feel morbidly curious. And a part of her would never believe it until she saw it with her own two eyes.

*

He nodded weakly and pulled up his sleeve to show Her. He couldn’t meet Her eyes, but he knew what he’d find there. She was disgusted by him. She hated him. He didn’t blame Her.

In fact, he was inclined to agree.

*

She couldn’t take her eyes off of it. Had she not known better, it might have been a simple tattoo. She had long ago seen “hard” Muggles sport tattoos very similar to this. They thought it made them bad-ass to so cavalierly cover their bodies with menacing patterns of permanent ink. How naive they were. It was almost funny to think about. At one time, she would move to the other side of the pavement if she encountered a person who looked like that while walking down the street. Now, those Muggles seemed like little boys trying on their father’s suits.

This Mark wasn’t just a crass tattoo. It carried with it the baggage of all the deeds He had no doubt performed since receiving it. And it served as a reminder, not just of who He was now. More than that, it was a broken promise.

She sighed. So, He was Marked, and that was that. Now she knew for sure.

“You remember what you said to me about that? After your father told you he wanted you to take the Mark?”

He nodded.

*

_They locked eyes for a moment. Just a single instance of eye contact before resolving not to look at one another for the rest of the feast. But in that all too brief moment, they communicated more than most of the people surrounding them, locked into their own inane conversations._

_After the feast they each hung back, making polite excuses to their friends about prefect duties (her) and meeting some girl in Hogsmeade (him—and true, except for the location). She set the pace, walking several meters ahead of him, winding down corridor after corridor. The challenge was not to rush. They wanted to because it meant they could be alone sooner. But it would attract attention. So they each willed their feet not to keep pace with their fast-beating hearts._

_Finally, she ducked into an abandoned classroom and counted thirty of the longest seconds of her life before his platinum blond head appeared through the door. The moment he locked it behind him, she rushed to him, and he scooped her up in his arms, spinning her around in jubilant circles. She felt like one of those simpering, idiotic girls in romance novels the way she giggled as she clung to him for dear life._

_As he sat her back on the ground, he immediately smashed his lips to hers and guided her backward until she felt the wall. With all his inelegant teenage enthusiasm, he cupped every bit of flesh he could reach as he plundered her mouth with his own starved tongue. She greedily met him, taking from him every bit of affection he gave her in turn, and circled her arms around his neck. He lifted her slightly as he kissed her, bringing her as close as possible. Neither of them wanted a bit of space between them. It had been such a long summer._

_“_ _I missed you so much,” he whispered into her mouth, never ceasing in his voracious feasting of her._

_“I missed you too,” she said between long pulls of their lips._

_He kissed her like he’d wanted to all summer. Every day he had fantasized about this. He grasped her hips and pulled her tightly against him, grounding her to him to convince himself she was real. That they were really here together._

_She instantly felt that hard appendage against her inner thigh. It used to frighten her to feel it when they snogged, but the logical part of her brain eventually sank in, and she came to accept that it was a natural reaction that men, especially teenaged young men, had when engaging in sexually stimulating activities such as kissing a woman they found attractive._

_Truth be told, it made her feel a tad powerful to know she had that effect on him. They hadn’t gone past heavy make-out sessions and petting above the clothes, but in this moment, after being deprived of him for so many months, she felt so much longing for him, she didn’t want to ignore her lust. She whimpered into his mouth, a sound she knew drove him wild, and rubbed her crotch against his erection._

_He gasped, breaking the kiss. “Hermione, you can’t_ do _things like that.”_

_“Why not?” she asked coquettishly._

_“_ _Because,” he panted, capturing her lips in another sensual kiss. “Because it’s making me want to do things to you that I don’t think you would approve of.” He’d been fine with taking things slow. Hell, even he hadn’t been ready last year to ‘go all the way.’ But after a long absence, and a bollocks-crushing summer with his father, he wanted to lose himself in the creamy body of the girl he knew he loved. Hermione was the only girl he’d ever kissed, touched, wanted. If he had his way, she’d be the last._

_“What sorts of things?”_

_He groaned into her neck. “I’m too much of a gentleman to say.” The gentleman couldn’t resist running his hands possessively over her arse and squeezing it before tugging her against him. Some of the things his body was longing to do to her body might have been more animal than romantic, but most of them he felt sure she would enjoy as much as he would. He took her hand in his and guided it to his throbbing crotch. “But does that answer your question?”_

_Christ on a cracker, that was his penis she was touching through his trousers. The thought was so damn arousing, her knickers melted into a puddle. Did that make her a hussy?_

_Her mother had always told her that it was perfectly natural for young women to explore their budding sexuality and that she shouldn’t be ashamed if she had urges just like young men did. Her only caution was that Hermione exercise prudence when making choices of a sexual nature._

_This didn’t feel like prudence. It felt primal and hungry and endlessly wonderful._

_Yet she trusted Draco. She probably even loved him, and she was positive he felt the same way. Despite how hot they were for each other, she realized that this was most likely what her mother meant by ‘prudence.’ Being with someone you cared about._

_She gave his cock a slight squeeze through his trousers._

_He hissed. “I’m going to come in my pants if you keep that up.”_

_She giggled. “It’s good to see you missed me.”_

_Something in his eyes shifted. A darkening passed over him, clouding the affection and lust that had been there previously. “You have no idea.”_

_She bit her lip as she gazed up at him through her lashes. Suddenly, she felt terribly shy. Something in his voice—not the lust, because that was easily identifiable—but something else, alerted her that perhaps sex wasn’t what he most needed right now. “Draco, what happened this summer?”_

_They couldn’t send letters, but they had made copious use of Protean Charmed Galleons to send one another messages. However, given the limited size of the coins, their notes were always short, the Galleons being unable to accommodate too much detail. Still, every morning, she would wake up to a message on her coin that said, “GOOD MORNING, BEAUTIFUL.” They would exchange a few messages throughout the day._

_“READING A BOOK YOU’D LIKE.”_

_“MUM ASKED IF I HAD A BOYFRIEND. WISHED YOU COULD MEET.”_

_“COUNTING DOWN THE DAYS.”_

_And there would be a message at the end of the night. “GOOD NIGHT. DREAM OF ME.” But towards the end of the summer, there were a few days he didn’t send the goodnight message. She assumed those days were dark in some way and that his father was involved to some degree._

_He cupped her cheek, avoiding her eyes and running his thumb on the underside of her jaw. “Father wanted me to take the Mark.”_

_This wasn’t exactly news to her. She suspected this would happen eventually. Yet, she couldn’t help the way her heart pounded in her chest. She gulped, almost frightened to ask this next question. “And…did you?”_

_He finally caught her eyes with his. The intensity of his gaze startled her for a moment. “No. I would never. I will_ never _take the Mark. I promise you. I won’t let that happen.”_

_She smiled sadly. She appreciated this sweet, flawed boy more than words could say. She hoped he could keep his promise, but she knew he might not have a choice. Draco was a powerful wizard, but in the face of death at the hands of his father and dozens of other Death Eaters, Draco might not be able to turn it down forever. She always assumed she would join the Order of the Phoenix. Hopefully, when the time came, she could convince him to come with her. “We’re together now. That’s what matters.”_

_He smiled. “We are.” He captured her lips again in what was meant to be a soft, almost chaste kiss. But it had been too long. She felt too good. She tasted like life. It was a taste that had no direct reference, but it reminded him of the smell of earth warming in the sun, of running in the fields south of the Manor when he was young enough to be allowed to play uninterrupted. Of laughter and summer grass. Sometimes, on his broom, he would catch a whiff of this smell—this odor of life. That was what Hermione Granger tasted like to him. All things good and alive._

_He wanted to touch her skin. To know if it was as warm as summer grass. He broke the kiss to ask a silent question as his fingers ghosted under her jumper, just where her stomach met the waistband of her skirt._

_She smirked mischievously at him and nodded._

_Every bone in his body sang as he ran his hands over her stomach. Her ribcage. Her spine. When his fingers brushed against the underside of a bra-clad breast, his blood spiked several degrees and his breath caught in his throat. But he heard something that gave him confidence. It wasn’t much, but it was still_ something _._

_A moan._

_A very small moan. So small, it didn’t leave her throat. It was something he probably wasn’t even meant to hear. But he heard it all the same._

_He answered by drifting upward, over her bra. It felt like lace, and Hermione’s breasts felt so full and warm through the flimsy fabric. He became bolder in his exploration, running his fingertips over her nipples. He’d read that girls like that._

_They must. Because he heard that moan again._

_“Merlin,” he whispered as he kissed her lips again, tasting the moan that might have escaped those lips, had he not insisted on stopping it with his own mouth._

_“Draaa-co,” she said, her voice breaking in a cry that set him ablaze. Merlin, the way her voice cracked when she said his name; he’d wank for weeks to the thought of it._

_It felt so right to touch her like this. She was warm and soft and responsive under his hands, and he wanted nothing more than to please her. Sometimes he could hardly believe that she was his. This was the girl who haunted his dreams since the first stirrings of puberty and she, for some ridiculous reason, wanted him back._

_In an odd moment of bravery, Draco allowed his hand to trail down her body until it reached the hem of her skirt. His fingers snuck under the wool and caressed the smooth flesh underneath. “Let me.”_

_His voice was so soft and vulnerable. He was so achingly sincere. She practically broke her neck nodding to agree._

_He groaned as he captured her lips with his. His mind was fizzing with lust as his fingers caressed the silky skin of her thigh. He had wanted to touch her like this for so long. Now that he finally could, he didn’t want to take a single second for granted. He moved slowly, memorizing her, mapping her. He wanted to know every dip, every inch of that delectable flesh. When he reached her knickers, a part of him still half-believed she would slap his hand away if he tried to touch her. But he didn’t have the willpower to pay attention to that part as he stroked her through her knickers and groaned as he noted how moist and hot they were. He moaned low in his throat and dipped his fingers inside._

_Truthfully, he had no idea what he was doing, but that did little to deter him. All he knew was that kissing and touching just wasn’t enough right now. He needed more. He stroked her experimentally, causing her to make these delightful little keening noises. When he brushed up against something near the top, where curls met flesh, she convulsed and grabbed his shoulders tightly. He felt ten feet tall in that moment. “You like that?”_

_“Again.” She guided his hand to her clit and showed him how to touch her._

_He got the hang of it pretty quickly, using his powers of observation to see from her reaction exactly where the best spots on that little bud were. For such a small part of her body, it was enormously complicated. The subtlest change of his movements could have the most profound effect. And the way she looked right now, pressed against the wall, her skin flushed from arousal while he brought her pleasure, made him harder than he could ever remember being in his life. He pressed his lips near her ear and whispered hotly, “You’re so beautiful like this.” He had never meant anything more. He was going out of his mind watching her body writhing against him while she took her pleasure. Those sweet moans in his ear, heavy puffs of air on his neck…he had never been so worked up in his life._

_She panted, bucking her hips against his hand. “Put a finger in.”_

_Sweet Circe, yes. Switching the angle of his hand, so the pad of his thumb continued to rub against her clit, he sank a finger into her and had to bite the inside of his jaw to keep from losing control. She was so fucking wet. And warm. And as snug as she felt around just one of his fingers, he couldn’t even imagine how she’d feel wrapped around his cock. Gods, he wanted that so badly with her. But he mustn’t rush this._

_She responded so sweetly to him pumping his finger in and out of her, he decided to add another. She hissed through her teeth, and he worried that maybe he had hurt her. “Is this okay?”_ Please, Merlin, don’t fuck this up _, he mentally chastised himself._

_“More than okay,” she panted. “Could you…curl your fingers a bit? I’ve read that it feels…Oh, Merlin!”_

_He eagerly complied with her request and nearly sobbed with pride as he watched her reaction. She bounced on his fingers, using them for her pleasure while she squeezed his shoulders. It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen in his life._

_As he continued curling and pumping his fingers while trying to maintain some sort of rhythm on her clit, he noticed her moans becoming more erratic. Moan, moan, sigh. Sigh, gasp, bite lip. Merlin, fuck yes, groan. Her tiny fingers fisted around his shirt, drawing him closer and pulling him into a hot, dirty snog._

_He felt like he’d been running laps around the castle, so fast was his heart beating as he watched his girlfriend teeter on the edge of orgasm. The fact that he brought her here made him want to do something ridiculous, like sing at the top of his lungs. He couldn’t remember ever being this happy._

_“Oh, my God, I’m coming,” she said as her inner walls seemed to flutter around his fingers, tightening and releasing on them. He felt a flood of warm moisture coat them. He longed to taste it. Instead, he continued to pump them so she could ride out her orgasm._

_She made a noise somewhere between a cry and a sigh as she grabbed Draco by the tie and smashed his lips against hers. He eagerly swallowed her moan and twined his tongue around hers._

_He could hardly believe it. He had just given Hermione Granger an orgasm. He nearly bit his tongue in half to keep himself from blurting out that he loved her because he was absolutely positive that he did. But he didn’t want her to think that he only said it because of what they had just done. Instead, he kissed her softly on her lips, then her nose. “I loved that.” As true as it was, it was a compromise from what he really wanted to say._

_“That was…” Hermione said, finding she, for once, did not have the adequate words to describe how she felt. “I missed you so much.”_

_“I missed you too.” He dipped his head to kiss her._

_Suddenly she looked sad. “It won’t always be like this will it?”_

_He tucked a finger under her chin so she would meet his eyes. “I will never let anything happen to you, Hermione.”_

_“I know you won’t. But…what about you? Your father might make you take the Mark, and…”_

_He quieted her with a calming shushing sound. “I promise you. That will never_ _happen.”_

*

It happened.

On His arm, He wore the evidence that He no longer belonged to her in any way. Perhaps she should have known this already. After all, she had moved on—with Harry. It was unfair to all parties involved for her to carry a torch for the man standing before her now. Her head knew all of this. Her heart was a different matter.

“Hermione,” Draco said softly. “Please say something.”

Her eyes burned. This would certainly be the worst possible moment to break her dry spell and finally cry. “Why now?”

“What?”

“I begged you to come with me, but you wouldn’t. Now, all of a sudden, you decide to help us. Why?” She couldn’t help the way her voice cracked on the last word.

His mouth opened and closed several times before he answered. “I wanted to go with you, Hermione.”

“Then why _didn’t_ you?” Her voice came out in a tense whisper, strained from trying to hold back years of rage and heartbreak.

“You weren’t safe. And if I remember correctly, you refused to run away with me too.” He couldn’t meet her eye. She imagined He was probably ashamed. Good.

“So becoming a Death Eater was the only solution for you? Is that what you tell yourself? That you did this for me?”

“I _did_ do it for you. You have no idea what I’ve…” He broke off.

She decided to ignore that. For now. “You never answered my question. Why now?”

He shook his head. “There are countless reasons why. First of all, you lost Weasley. That is the first significant development in years that the Ministry has made against the Order.”

Hermione felt her temperature spike as Draco mentioned her dead best friend, but she said nothing.

“Secondly, your _precious boyfriend_ ,” he couldn’t quite keep the venom out of his voice at the mention of Harry, “had a death wish and decided to compromise the safety of himself and everyone else in the Order, _yourself included_ , by bounding into the Ministry like a belligerent fool just so he could have revenge.”

She was still angry at Harry for what he did, but she knew she should probably make an attempt to stick up for him. “It was stupid, I’ll admit it. But at least he did it because he loved Ron. He was _loyal_ to him. Harry would do anything for the people he loves. I wouldn’t expect you to understand something like that.”

A wild shadow appeared in Draco’s eyes. It was evident that she had angered Him, but she couldn’t seem to find the will to care.

His voice came out curt and tense. “Third, you needed a contact. Fourth, the situation just fell into my lap and caught me at a moment where I was feeling more disenchanted than normal over the state of my pathetic life. And lastly,” he stalked over until he was standing right in front of her, the intensity in His eyes startling her, “I’m a fucking _idiot_. I thought if I did this, I could be closer to you somehow.”

She scoffed darkly. “Don’t pretend for a moment you still care.”

“I _do_ still care about you. The thought of Potter getting to touch you makes me violent.” She instinctively backed up a bit as He began to pant. “I’m having a very hard time convincing myself not to press you against the wall right now, and I’m not entirely sure you would stop me if I did.”

A shiver ran up her spine at the dark promise in His voice. She was disgusted that a part of her hoped He would give in and just do it already.

Fuck Him, He was right. She _wouldn’t_ stop Him. “So, is that really why you’re doing this? You think I’ll fuck you out of gratitude because you’re helping us?”

“No,” he grit the word through his teeth. “You should know me better than that. It was never just sex with us.”

The sincerity in His eyes disarmed her. He was miserable. There was no doubt about that. Part of her was glad that was the case. “I’m with Harry.”

“I know.”

“I’m not going to leave him for you just because you suddenly decided to be noble.”

“I’m not _asking_ you to.”

It was a terrible idea, but she couldn’t help herself from gingerly stroking her fingers along the Dark Mark on his arm. “You promised me.”

He sighed. “Of course I did. I was sixteen and horny, and you had just let me touch you for the first time.”

She chuckled. “So you do remember?”

*

He smirked weakly. “How could I forget that?”

It had, after all, been his primary wank material for the first several months of his sixth year. Even though shortly after they had gone further, that particular memory of her falling apart for him was burned into his soul.

“What do you want, Draco?” she asked softly.

He sighed. “I don’t know how to begin to answer that question.”

She swallowed deeply. “Did you…ever try to find me?”

“No.”

“Why not?” There was a slight tremble in her voice.

He smiled sadly. “Because you were being hunted. Sometimes, to love, you have to be a stranger.” Merlin knows he had used every bit of his influence to keep eyes off of Her. The last thing She needed was to inquire about Her and resurrect Her name amongst the Death Eaters. She’d probably kill him if she knew that Weasley’s death was actually, to a small degree, his fault.

The Dark Lord never had any interest in pursuing Weasley. It was the ‘Smart One’ he wanted. The Girl. Using every bit of cunning he possessed, Draco convinced the Dark Lord that it would be a better use of Ministry resources to direct the Snatchers to focus on catching Weasley. The Right-Hand Man. The Second-in-Line. And now, Weasley was dead. And Hermione was still alive.

It was a price Draco would pay a thousand times if he could.

She nodded. “We should get going.” She adopted a professional tone to her voice.

“Where?”

“Maldon. We need to meet our general supplier. You’ll probably be working with him more often than you’ll see any of us.”

Draco pushed aside the disappointment at Her suddenly curt manner. If there was one thing he understood, it was self-preservation. Maybe he shouldn’t have used the “L word.” “Supplier for what?”

“Food, mainly. He’s a farmer in Essex. A Muggle.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

Hermione sighed. “No, Draco. Not a bit. We actively chose a supplier who is not in the least trustworthy.”

Draco hid his smirk at Her cheek. Merlin, he had missed Her. “How long have you worked with him?”

“Long enough to know he’s trustworthy. Hold my hand.”

He knew it was for no other purpose than Side-Along Apparition, but his stomach fluttered all the same at the feel of Her hand in his. It was rougher than he remembered. But it was Hers.

*


	6. Unwelcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN UPDATE, Y'ALL!
> 
> So sorry about the wait. I PINKY SWEAR that I'm pretty much always thinking about this story, though. You won't have to wait so long for the next one. I've been doing some writing on this story lately. For those of you who are members of the Facebook group, Granger Enchanted, I'm doing a "Meet the Penname" on February 9, and I talk quite a bit about this story.
> 
> Also, on February 14, the Strictly Dramione Valentine's Day Smut Fest 2018 stories will be revealed, and you'll find that I've written something for that, as well. So, keep your eyes peeled if you like smut. If you don't, then please don't read it because it's pure porn.
> 
> As always, I couldn't have done this without my friend and beta, SaintDionysus. Enjoy!

They arrived at the docks in Maldon without incident. The town was mainly Muggle, so it had always been of little interest to the Death Eaters. Every now and then a pureblood wizard would crop up to pay patronage to one of the artisans in the area, but mostly it remained a quiet, non-magical town.

It was a cruel irony that many Muggles actually benefited from the Dark Lord’s new order. Muggles who were valued for their craftsmanship did quite well. Muggle organic farmers did especially well, as there was no magical substitute for quality agriculture. But some Muggles fared worse.

Take plumbers for instance; plumbers, electricians, technicians, any sort of handyman, really. Muggles in these positions found their jobs all but obsolete once the Statue of Secrecy was abolished. Poorer half-bloods found their niche in magical handiwork. They did the same work in a fraction of the time. A considerable fraction. And they charged the same, if not less in some instances. Muggles couldn’t compete here.

A kind male voice greeted them at the docks before they even had gathered their bearings. “How’s my favorite wicked witch?”

Sunny was one of the ones who did well. He looked to be well-fed, and his jovial attitude was contagious. He had a disposition worthy of his name. Apple-cheeked and baby-faced, he wore a bright blue cabbie cap, penny loafers, and a T-Shirt with some band called “The Sex Pistols” on it. Draco had never heard of them, but the name was certainly intriguing. Sunny appeared to be Indian, but Draco was hardly an expert. He sported a patchy beard, and his large brown eyes lit up as they entered the harbor.

You’d never guess the guy was a traitor to the new regime. After all, what did a man like Sunny have to lose? Except, of course, all semblance of morality, which wasn’t worth much these days. It wasn’t really worth anything. Most Muggles would have just taken their luck where they could find it. Bugger their conscience.

Hermione rolled her eyes at his pseudo-compliment. “I brought you something,” She said, motioning to Draco.

Sunny squinted his eyes at Draco. “Not really my type, lovely, but I’ll make do.”

Her lips quirked up in amusement at Draco’s mild discomfort at the comment. “He’s our new London contact.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

Draco scoffed at the question, as it was the very same he, himself asked Hermione regarding Sunny not fifteen minutes earlier. “No. Not a bit. She actively chose a contact who is not in the least bit trustworthy.”

She laughed at the familiarity of his words. For a split second, She was sixteen-years-old again and teasing him about using too much hair gel.

His stomach did a somersault. Sunny grinned good-naturedly.

“Alright, so he’s a smart aleck. But you know, I had to ask. After all, he is a bit…shifty-looking.”

“He can also hear you,” Draco said. “Quite well. So, I’ll thank you to shove your suspicions up your arse and stop talking about me like I’m not here.”

Sunny raised his eyebrows, his arms folding as he regarding Draco with amusement.

“He can be trusted, Sunny. You’re going to be seeing more of him, so I wanted you two to meet.” Hermione turned to Draco. “Sunny grows the best produce in England.”

Sunny snickered. “She’s just saying that because she’s hoping I’ll throw in some extra broccoli rabe.”

Draco couldn’t fight his smile. Hermione always did have a taste for barmy things that most people learned to dislike as children. It was a symptom of having dentists as parents. Not that he had any reason to complain about Her magnetism towards the unconventional and prickly. After all, he had once been one of those odd tastes. “I believe it,” Draco said, sneering as playfully as he thought he could get away with.

She blushed. It was slight. But it was there. A blush. “Shut it, Malfoy.”

Sunny’s eyes flickered back and forth between the two. “Okay, Draco. If Hermione trusts you, I trust you.” He extended his hand for Draco to shake. “Welcome to Paradise.”

Draco grinned as he took Sunny’s hand and shook it. “Or at least the closest we’ll ever come to it, right?”

Sunny laughed a loud, barking laugh and clapped Draco on the shoulder. “Oh, you, I like. Hermione, where did you find this one?”

Hermione darted her eyes to his. “I wish I knew.”

 

*

 

The afternoon went well. Sunny was pleasant and disarming in a way only truly happy people can be. Draco realized it had been forever since he’d socialized with someone who wasn’t at least a sociopath. It was a nice change.

Hermione seemed to be more at ease too once they settled in a bit. Having Sunny as a buffer between them allowed Her to relax. She smiled a bit more easily and even laughed a couple more times that day. One of those times, it was even because of something Draco had said.

Several times, he’d catch Her watching him, and they both would immediately divert their attention elsewhere, pretending that they weren’t desperately aware of the other’s presence. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he had been so self-conscious of the way his arms swayed when he walked or how light his tread was. Should he put his hands in his pockets? Would that be more casual? Should he talk more or less? How often was it acceptable to address Her directly?

Despite these bouts of awkwardness, it had been the best afternoon he’d had in ages.

The only hiccup was when Sunny invited them back to his cabin for lunch. Moments after they walked through the door, Hermione’s eyes were drawn to a newspaper on the coffee table.

_MINISTRY EXECUTES HIGH-RANKING BLOOD TRAITOR REBEL_

Plastered across the front page was a photo of Ron Weasley, dangling from a rope at the top of the Ministry Building. His skin was mostly either burned or flayed from his body. Draco felt sick watching Hermione’s face as She gazed upon the sight. He realized as he watched her fingers glide delicately over the photo that this was likely the first time she had had access to the paper.

Sunny realized his mistake in leaving it out. “Hermione…I’m so sor—”

“It’s alright.” Her eyes flickered as she silently read the article.

In a moment of bravery, Draco put his hand on her shoulder. “You shouldn’t look at it.”

She shook Her head. “I want to.”

 

*

 

Once a month Draco had dinner with his father at the Manor. It was a tradition entirely void of content, as the two men had nothing to talk about. It was odd, considering how everyone always insisted the two of them were just alike in both appearance and temperament. Draco had long learned how to keep from vomiting when people said it, as they always meant it as a compliment. It wasn’t their fault they didn’t know any better.

As always, Lucius initiated conversation, such as it was between them. “I tried to owl you today. You weren’t at your house.”

Draco wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a delicate sip of wine. “I was out.”

“I gathered that. Out where?”

“That’s personal.”

“So, whoremongering, then.” Lucius fixed his son with a serious look. “You should be careful. Whores talk.”

“I never give them anything to complain about,” he said, taking a cheeky bite of his filet.

“You should be more ruthless with your women.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, that you have certain proclivities which will not go unnoticed by your enemies forever.”

“I don’t have any enemies.”

“Don’t you?” Lucius raised an elegant blond eyebrow as he cut his meat. “If you are really so foolish as to believe that, then perhaps your preferences in whores are the least of your concerns.”

Draco chewed carefully before making a show of swallowing and ignoring his father’s knowing gaze. “Who I fuck is my own business.”

“Perhaps. But there are those who may find it interesting that you only select bed partners who resemble Hermione Granger.”

Draco nearly choked on his wine. “I doubt anyone would care who I was fucking. I’m sure many people enjoy the company of women who look like Her. A lot of the girls in the brothels actually market themselves that way.” It had been a sick revelation for Draco to discover that a lot of depraved men fantasized about dominating ‘Potter’s Mudblood.’ Enough men that some prostitutes profited from it.

“Perhaps you merely lack imagination when it comes to the fairer sex,” Lucius said with an air of faux nonchalance as he took a bite of parsnip.

This was precisely the reason he detested these dinners with his father. He sat back in his chair and met his father’s gaze. “You know, Father,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, “there was a time you encouraged my ‘whore mongering’ as you call it.”

“Times were different. You were a schoolboy and you only had eyes for that—”

“I’d be careful how you finish that sentence.”

“This is what I’m talking about, Draco. You have a soft spot for that girl even after all these years. It will be your downfall.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Father,” he said, taking a healthy sip of wine. “I doubt anyone else would assume that Hermione Granger has a monopoly on curly brown hair, except you.”

“But your history with her—”

“Is unknown to anyone else. Except you, that is. Do I need to worry about you, Father?”

Lucius’s mouth disappeared into a fine line. “If I wanted to denounce my own son as a blood traitor, I missed the opportunity years ago.”

“It’s getting late,” Draco said, standing. “I should be getting home.”

A small, spiteful part of Draco hoped that Lucius felt partly responsible for the fact that Draco only slept with prostitutes. It would be an incorrect assumption on his part, but if it was a matter of such concern for him, hopefully, Lucius felt somewhat guilty. Most fathers would.

 

*

 

 _Draco’s eyes widened at the three naked women on his bed. This was certainly not what he’d been expecting when his father told him there was a gift for him in his room. He’d never even slept with_ one _woman. What in the bleeding hell was he expected to do with three?_

_One of the girls giggled. “Oh, he’s a pretty one.” “_

_Shall we help you undress, Mr. Malfoy?”_

_Draco backed up against the door as a raven-haired beauty got out of the bed and stepped towards him. “That won’t...um…that is…I won’t be needing any help, thank you.”_

_The three women shared a chuckle over the polite teenager they had been paid to ‘make a man out of,’ as per the elder Malfoy’s instructions._

_“Would you like to strip for us, then?” the black-haired one asked again._

_He gulped. This would be a lot easier if they weren’t all so…naked. “I…um…. Look…I know my father paid you all to…um….”_

_“Show you a good time?” said the curvy redhead as she traced a finger up the spine of the blonde girl._

_Draco shivered at the sight. “Yes, right. But I can’t.”_

_The dark-haired woman cooed sympathetically as she took another step towards him. “Of course, you can. We’ll show you.”_

_“_ _No, that’s not…I mean…I’m sure that I can, but what I mean is that I won’t.” He deserved a goddamned medal for this._

 _“_ _You won’t?”_

_“Right. I’m in love with someone.” It was the first time he’d ever said it out loud._

_“That’s nice. Love is very important.” The dark-haired woman took another step._

_“Please…” Draco closed his eyes and extended an arm, signaling she was to come no further. He couldn’t stand to look at so much soft, tempting flesh. “I mean it. I have a girlfriend at school. My father doesn’t know about her.”_

_The woman whispered playfully, “We won’t tell her if you won’t.”_

_“No,” he said firmly, opening his eyes and staring her down. Gone was the shaky, boyish uncertainty in his voice. He was full of resolve. “I’m not cheating on her. I love her.” It was strange that he was admitting it to three prostitutes, but he still hadn’t said it to Hermione. The minute he returned to Hogwarts, he would make sure to tell her._

_Something crossed over the dark-haired woman’s eyes. Perhaps it was disbelief. Draco doubted she was used to men turning her down. He doubted she encountered many men who had even the slightest qualm about cheating on their wives or girlfriends. At least in her line of work. “If we don’t…” her chin wobbled. “What will we tell your father?”_

_“Tell him I fucked you all sideways. Tell him you showed me the time of my life. But just don’t tell him about my girlfriend.”_

_The women looked at each other for a moment before nodding. “Well,” the brunette walked back over to join the other women in the bed. “If we’re not going to fuck, then what shall we do?”_

_“First, will you all please put some clothes on?”_

_They chuckled at him. A blonde with long, wavy hair clucked at him. “Never seen a naked woman before, Junior? That girlfriend of yours holding out on you?”_

_He’d seen Hermione in many states of undress. The two of them might not have done It yet, but they’d done other things. But she was the only girl he intended on seeing naked. The sooner these women put their clothes on, the better he’d feel._

_Once they dressed, he turned back around to find them all facing him, awaiting instruction._

_“Um…do any of you by chance play chess?”_

 

*

 

_Draco had always thought he was a good player, but those women had beat the daylights out of him. Particularly the aggressive one with the black hair. She had beat him in record time, almost as if it had bored her. It was yet another revelation about life. These prostitutes were so much smarter than him. They were probably smarter than all of their clients._

_After he sent the women away, he made his way down the staircase with his broom, eager to go for a fly on the grounds. All thought of that was abandoned when a deep, familiar voice interrupted his reverie._

_“Did you enjoy your present?”_

_Draco turned to face his father, who was sitting in an armchair near the fireplace. “Very much, thank you.”_

_Lucius nodded. “You may wonder what possessed me to see to this particular part of your education.”_

_Draco forced himself to snicker like a sleazy boy who had just lost his virginity to three beautiful women. “That was honestly the_ last _thing that occurred to me.”_

_Lucius chuckled. “I’m glad the ladies were to your liking. Although at your age, any pretty thing without clothes on is probably your type. But you should know, Draco. There are certain ‘types’ that are forbidden.”_

_Draco gulped. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”_

_Lucius was silent for several moments. It was a technique of his that Draco noticed he employed whenever he wanted to establish authority. The other person (often Draco, himself) would sit there waiting for Lucius to set the agenda. It worked wonders. “I have heard that there is a certain young lady in whom your interest might be more than is healthy. Particularly due to her undesirable parentage.”_

What? _He was so sure he and Hermione had been careful. From whom could Lucius have possibly heard about her? Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Father, I don’t’ know who you have been talking to, but I assure you—”_

_“There’s no need to be defensive, Draco. I was young once too. Some Mudbloods are certainly attractive enough for a romp in a broom closet. It is your right as a pureblood to have her service you. But beyond that, Draco, you should be cautious. You have duties, after all.”_

_“Duties,” Draco repeated, solemnly. He felt nauseated listening to his father’s disgusting words._

_“I merely wanted to debunk the mystery of the female form for you. Hopefully, you have learned that they all contain the same parts. They are all flesh. There is no need to put too high a value on one in particular.”_

_Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think about Mother?”_

_Lucius realized his mistake. “Son, your mother and I are partners in life. She knows this.” It wasn’t an answer to the question Draco asked._

_He nodded. “Well, thank you for the gift, Father. I enjoyed myself immensely, and it was very enlightening.” It certainly had been enlightening to learn that he was actually a pretty shite chess player._

_“Good to hear it, son. And remember what I said. Now that you know how easy it is, you can understand that just because a girl may do certain things for you, it doesn’t mean those things are precious.”_

_As Draco walked away from his father, he clenched his fists around his broom. He would need to be more careful when he came back to Hogwarts from the Christmas hols. Lucius might not know the extent of his involvement with Hermione yet, but it was only a matter of time._

_Who had Lucius been talking to?_

 

*

 

Lucius put a hand up to stop Draco. “You don’t have to leave so soon.”

Draco called for a house elf to bring him his cloak. “I’m afraid I must. Thank you for dinner, Father. It was, as always, delightful.”

Lucius stood. “You understand that as your father, I am concerned about you. It’s not healthy for you to pine for the impossible.”

“Same time next month?” Draco said dryly, ignoring his father’s comment.

“Draco.”

He released a long breath and looked at his father. “What?”

Lucius held his gaze for a moment. “We did the right thing.”

With his jaw set tightly, he nodded his head and exited the dining room. It was moments like this that Draco realized how futile it was to ponder where he got his ability to justify even the worst of his actions.

Lucius had always been like that. Ever since Draco could remember, his father had been that way with everything. His business dealings. His associations with abhorrent people.

His women.

Draco’s mother always took it patiently. That is to say—she suffered.

 


	7. Not A Shape I Recognize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. It's been an age. BUT I am currently working on no other WIPs, as I just finished up An Indefinite Amount of Forever, so this story officially has my full attention. I'm working on this one every day, so you can expect pretty regular updates from now until I finish it. 
> 
> SaintDionysus is my beta, cheerleader, and sister from another mister. Platonic life partner/soulmate/writing wife. Etc. I love her. 
> 
> If you're interested in pairing this chapter with music, I obsessively listened to Sufjan Stevens "A Good Man Is Hard To Find" pretty much constantly when I wrote this.
> 
> Enjoy!

Even after a long, five-mile run and a cold dip in the creek, Harry didn’t feel cleansed. A bubbling, sick sensation in the pit of his stomach needled at him while a nagging voice in the back of his head told him it had been a mistake to let Hermione be the one to make contact with Malfoy. He had hoped the icy clarity of the water would chase away the sound of that irritating little voice.

Harry Potter might have been a nice guy, but he was no cuckold. He didn’t know how to be this person who just gracefully let the woman he loves fall into the arms of another man.

_Don’t be ridiculous. It was a long time ago._

Except it wasn’t. It would never be long enough for Hermione. Harry knew when the two of them got together that this was the case. That she’d never be entirely over Malfoy.

He knew it because she’d all but admitted it. He asked her once, a while ago, if she still had any lingering feelings for Malfoy. She didn’t answer the question, but she did turn the tables on him and ask how dare he could possibly ask her something like that. Then she stormed out of the tent and didn’t come back until the next day. It was answer enough for him. Oddly enough, this fact comforted him.

Hermione was a flawed person, but she was not a liar. If anything happened, or would ever happen, between her and her Death Eater ex, she probably wouldn’t keep it from him. Sure, it would shatter his heart to smithereens, but it was better than not knowing. It was better than the waiting.

This fucking waiting.

She had been gone entirely too long. It was supposed to be a quick pop over to London to make contact, a stop in Maldon to meet Sunny, and then she’d be back.

But then again, nobody ever escaped Sunny’s without lunch. That would be an hour. Two hours _tops_ if Sunny wanted to chat. He probably wanted to chat. He always wanted to chat. And Malfoy was new, so it would take longer to brief him. So, that’s three hours there. Four if Sunny found him even mildly interesting.

The tent flap shuffled.

Harry sprung out of the cot and tried to look like he had been doing anything other than pining and watching the tent flap.

Looking flustered and tired, she entered the tent and set her rucksack down. She had yet to make eye contact with Harry.

That wasn’t a good sign, was it?

Then again, she didn’t _look_ like she had recently been shagged against a warehouse wall.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” She sat down on the cot with a mild _oof_ and began pulling off her boots.

Harry stood lamely on the other side of the tent with his hands in his pockets. “So….how’d it go?”

“It was fine.”

_That’s it? That’s all he gets for being the bigger man and trusting her around Malfoy?_

“Sunny seemed to like him.”

“Really? Well, that’s…good. That’s good.”

“Yeah.” She lay on the cot and stared up at the ceiling.

Harry felt monumentally stupid as he waited for her to elaborate. “Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…you haven’t seen him in years. It must have been…something.”

She sighed heavily. “Harry,” she said, swallowing heavily. “It’s been a long day. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what it means. I’m tired and I can’t do this,” she motioned between the two of them, “too. It’s been a day.”

“Fine.” He shrugged, bringing his arms in front of his chest and biting his lip, contemplating whether or not to push it. He remained that way for several long moments before grabbing a Snitch and playing with it, as was his nervous habit.

“ _What?_ ”

He caught the Snitch with a heavy sigh. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I can hear you thinking.”

He fingered the small, gold ball with its many dips and ridges in the engraved pattern. It gave him something solid to focus on whilst he attempted to steel himself for this conversation. “You’d tell me if anything happened between the two of you, right?”

The muscles in her face froze violently. “ _Nothing_ happened.”

“Not yet, but that doesn’t mean—”

“What is _wrong_ with you? Do you _want_ me to cheat on you with Him?”

He stood up suddenly and threw the Snitch on the ground. “ _Obviously_ , I don’t want that. But I know you have feelings for him, Hermione.”

She suddenly wanted to hurt him. So, she told him the truth. Rather…she told him a truth that seemed to answer a question he wasn’t really asking. “I thought about it, you know.” She was practically hissing as she spoke the words that would surely break Harry’s heart. “He looked _so_ good, better than anything I’ve seen in a long time and I instantly could feel myself getting wet for him.” _Stop it, Hermione!_ “I wanted his hands _all_ over me. And I _know_ he felt the same. Maybe I should have just gone for it. What do you think, Harry?”

It had the desired effect. There wasn’t a bit of air left in the room while Harry stood there shaking with rage. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

He stormed out.

 

*

 

Hermione collapsed on the cot. What she had just said to Harry was cruel, although not untrue. She was immediately overwhelmed with guilt, but she knew why she said it.

He didn’t trust her.

It angered her. It was, however, an unreasonable anger. As she had just so colorfully proven, he had a good reason not to trust her. Draco looked good enough to eat today and there was just as much chemistry between them as there had always been. She had hoped that after seven years, her passion for Him would have faded. She had told Harry that she just needed closure. She didn’t. Not really. Today had been a test. That was why she needed to see Him.

She failed. She still wanted Him. Hermione did not like failing tests.

Why couldn’t she just love Harry the way he deserved? He was a good man. _Too_ good. He was her best friend. He had loved her for years. If he had made a move in school, then maybe she would never have fallen into Draco’s arms.

 

*

 

_Hermione was furious. What exactly did Anthony Goldstein mean when he said he had ‘guitar lessons’ on Monday and Friday nights? It was as shit a euphemism for ‘standing fuck date’ if she’d ever heard. Why should that, in any way, excuse him from his prefect duties? Especially now that she had to patrol with Draco Malfoy._

_Although… he had been relatively civil with her. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember the last time he threw a slur at her or teased her. He was, however, consistently awful towards Ron and Harry, and loyalty dictated that she despise him on that fact alone._

_She glanced sideways at her Slytherin companion as they neared the dungeons. His eyes darted immediately to the floor. He had been looking at her. Probably finding a million things wrong with her that he could throw in her face during these patrols._

_Being a prefect was supposed to be wonderful, especially since Harry had been made one as well. Naïvely, she had assumed they would be patrolling together, but McGonagall seemed to think that Harry needed to be paired with someone less ‘distracting,’ whatever that meant._

_“So,” Draco said in a small, strange voice Hermione had never heard come out of him before. “What did you think of that translation we had to do in Ancient Runes the other day?”_

_Schoolwork? He was talking to her about schoolwork? What exactly was he playing at? She didn’t trust it. Best to tread carefully there._

_Still. It had been a fantastic lesson._

_“Um…it was interesting. But I didn’t realize you were in that class too.”_

_His cheeks reddened. “Uh…yeah. Since third year. But you wouldn’t notice me. I sit behind you.” He sort of mumbled that last bit._

_Sitting in the front of the class for every single one of her subjects, she probably didn’t have the best gauge of who her classmates even were. It surprised her, truth be told, that Draco would take Ancient Runes. It was a rather academic subject, and she had never really thought of Malfoy as the studious type. Then again, he was a prefect, so he must be somewhat intelligent._

_Merlin, this was the most the boy had spoken to her in…well…ever. Was this what he sounded like when he wasn’t sneering? It was highly unusual._

_She bit her lip, trying and failing to quell her curiosity over this newfound discovery of Malfoy’s academic prowess. “What other electives are you taking?”_

_“Arithmancy.”_

_“I’m in that one too,” she said incredulously. “How did I not realize that you’re in that class?”_

_His cheeks were blazing. “It’s alright. I keep mostly to myself in there. It’s a difficult subject, and I don’t exactly have the greatest confidence with it.”_

_Malfoy not have confidence? It did not compute._

_Malfoy taking the same electives as her?_

_It was interesting._

_“So,” she said, not even pretending anymore that she wasn’t fascinated by the fact that Malfoy wasn’t, as she’d always assumed, an underachiever like Harry and Ron, “what did you think of the translation we had to do the other day? Since you brought it up.” Seriously, she could never get Harry or Ron to even pretend to care about Ancient Runes and she doubted they even knew what Arithmancy actually was._

_He grinned. “I never realized ancient Druids had such a sense of humor.”_

_“I thought the same thing! The bit with the ‘mother’s egg basket’…”_

_His eyes lit up. “I know! I’d always assumed ‘your mum’ jokes were a fairly recent invention.”_

_Easy laughter passed between them. Hermione didn’t even notice the way he watched her as she threw her head back and laughed._

_“Maybe…” he said, apparently finding his shoelaces fascinating. “Maybe we could study together sometime. Since we both take the same classes.”_

_She stopped in her tracks, briefly considering smacking herself in the face. “Let me get this straight._ You _...want to_ study _...with_ me _?”_

_His whole face, from his neck to the top of his ears flushed pink. “Yeah.”_

_"_ Me? _"_

_“Y-y-yeah. If that’s alright. Obviously, you don’t have to. I only thought—”_

_“What are you up to, Malfoy?” She wasn’t fascinated anymore. None of this made any sense._

_“I…nothing. I just thought it would be nice to—”_

_“_ Nice? _You have never been anything even resembling ‘nice’ to me or my friends. And now you’re what? Asking me about homework? Trying to start a study group? So I’ll ask you again, Malfoy. What are you up to?”_

_“I…I…I just thought we could study together. I didn’t mean anything by it. And you might have just said ‘no’ if you weren’t interested,” he said in a rush. “We’re going to be patrolling together twice a week. I just thought it would be nice—er…good—for us to get along. I thought you’d prefer that. Clearly, I was wrong.” Draco Malfoy had never looked so similar to Neville Longbottom as in that moment. The boy obviously longed to sink into the floor._

_She glared at him. “I don’t trust you.”_

_He sighed. “I don’t blame you.”_

 

*

 

Why couldn’t Harry have just looked at her a little less in Transfiguration? McGonagall never would have thought of her as a distraction for him, and then the two of them could have patrolled together. Then nothing ever would have happened with Draco.

Her life would have been so much easier.

It would have happened eventually. Her and Harry. The ingredients for their romance had always been there. But Harry was too shy to act on it in school, and she was too oblivious to male attention.

Her love for Harry didn’t happen overnight. It was a slow, sweet process. Through war and hunger, pain and loss, the two of them had been through it all together. He was her rock. Their love came softly, but it was strong. He’d never stopped being her best friend.

Her love for Draco was like a forest fire. Overwhelming and suffocating. He was not good for her like Harry. Theirs was the love of youth. Too volatile and naïve to withstand the trials she and Harry had gone through. She knew this. They were poison together.

So why couldn’t she shake it?

Her best guess was that hers and Draco’s time together had been the one time in her life that she had been truly, exceedingly, embarrassingly happy. It was almost a stupid, mindless love in that specific way only first loves can be.

In a perfect world where she had been allowed to pursue a career, home, and family, she would have given herself to Harry completely. She wouldn’t long for the mindlessness of her first love.

But in this world, that memory was all she had sometimes. She’d revisit those times in her fantasies when she needed to escape. She’d dream of it. It kept her going.

Or maybe she was just an emotionally unfaithful bitch who didn’t know a good thing when she had it.

There was probably some truth in both ways of looking at it.

 

*

 

“Harry? You do not look so good.” Fleur wiped her hands on the front of her apron, wincing as she scanned the drawer for linseed oil.

“Don’t you start. I’ve already been abused by one woman today.” He slumped into a nearby chair. “How are you the only person in this camp who seems to have their shit together?”

“Easy,” she said, almost absent-mindedly as she combined the bitter-smelling oil with a bit of milk. “I don’t let anyone in my trousers. It helps me keep a clear head.”

He chuckled. Fleur was always easy to count on for a reality boost. When Bill had been killed five years ago, Fleur threw her chin up and stiffened her upper lip in the manner of her adopted country. She had a daughter to raise and grief would only get in the way. Since then, she had filled the role of Healer in their camp, training a few others who worked under her, but essentially running things herself. There was no nonsense to Fleur. Harry could always count on her to give it to him straight. “You may be the only veela in history who has ever said that.”

“Quarter veela. And what can I say? I have already seen every man in this camp naked for their checkups. And you know what I have to remind most of them to do?”

“What’s that?”

“ _Wash._ I’m not their fucking mother. Do you want tea?”

Harry shrugged. “Not really, but I have a feeling you’re going to make me a cup anyway.”

“It’s dandelion root. It is good for you, Harry.”

“Says the woman who _insists_ she’s not my mother.”

Fleur rolled her eyes, flicking her wand at the kettle to heat the water and sorting dried dandelion root, fennel seeds, and a variety of other acrid botanicals into little paper pouches. “It is not that I don’t love to entertain you, Harry, but is there any particular reason you are bothering me instead of making up with Hermione right now? Whatever she did, it cannot possibly be bad enough for you to suffer through my tea.”

He accepted the hot mug from Fleur and scratched the back of his neck. “I need some advice and you’re the closest thing to an adult in this whole place.”

She sniffed into her mug. “That is barely a compliment.” She sipped. “But I’ll take it.”

He sipped the strong, bitter tea, desperately wishing they had some honey or something to sweeten it. He’d have to remember to ask Sunny the next time he saw him. “I’m fairly certain I’m going to lose Hermione.”

Fleur was silent for a moment. She circled the rim of her mug thoughtfully with her index finger. “This really is not my area of expertise.”

“I know.”

“You saw me mixing something just now when you came in, yes? Do you know what that was?”

“No, Fleur. What was it?”

“It was a tonic to help Neville take a shit.”

“Um...o... _kay?_ ”

“That is the sort of thing I am good for, Harry. I help people take shits and I set their bones when they break them and I force them to take a fucking bath.”

Harry knew she was severely underrepresenting the extent of the things she did for this camp. “Okay, Fleur.”

“I am not good with girl talk.”

“I get it.”

“So what did Hermione do?”

He sat back in his chair and said the words he’d always known, but never uttered to another person. “She’s in love with Malfoy.”

Fleur narrowed her eyes, trying to recall where she had heard that name before. “Malfoy. Malfoy. Is he that blond Death Eater?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why the _fuck_ would you lose her to a man like that?”

“He’s helping us.”

“So that means Hermione has to go to bed with him?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Fleur. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“Do not use words you learn from Hermione against me. Especially when you are doing a shit job of explaining why you think your girlfriend is going to fuck you over for a Death Eater.”

He rubbed his forehead, pinching the top of his nose to gather his thoughts. “They were…in love. When we were all children together. She never got over it. I’ve always been this consolation prize. And he made it very clear that he’s not over it either.”

Fleur nodded in understanding. “If he loved her so much, then why is he not here? You are the one sitting here drinking my tea, not him.”

“Fuck if I know, Fleur. I don’t bloody understand him. I don’t even understand _her_.”

Fleur shrugged, taking a sip of her tea. “Women can be funny like that.”

“ _You’re_ not like that, Fleur.” She burst out laughing.

“Maybe not to you because we are not interested in each other.”

For a moment, she was a girl again, seventeen-years-old and resplendent in her Beauxbatons robes. The war had stretched all of them thin, but it was never so evident in anyone as it was in Fleur, who had once been so exquisitely beautiful that it almost hurt to look at her. Her preternatural glow had faded over the years. She was still beautiful, but there was a hardness now to her delicate features; a strain. A few premature wrinkles graced her otherwise flawless face. Her cheekbones were more pronounced. But it was most evident in her hands. Looking at them, one might have mistaken her for an old woman. They were the hands of a woman who worked tirelessly, loved endlessly, and whose generosity knew no bounds. “Were you like that with Bill?”

The easy grin fell from her face. _Shit._ Harry forgot she didn’t like talking about Bill. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s alright. Contrary to what you people think, it will not actually kill me if you bring him up.” She clutched her mug with a faraway look in her eyes. “In the beginning, we were very…um…what is the word? Cagey?”

“Cagey,” he repeated.

“We danced around each other. We tried to pretend we were not interested because it was what we were both used to. Neither of us had ever needed to put any effort into that sort of thing before. For me, boys were just always sort of…there.”

Harry laughed. It never failed to amuse him how flippant Fleur could be about her once-dazzling looks.

She grinned, as if she was thinking about something specific. “Anyway, we pretended the other did not exist for weeks until one day he threw his arms up in the air and said, ‘ _Merlin_ , woman. You had better be bloody worth it because you’re driving me barmy!’”

They both laughed for a moment. “I miss him,” she said simply. “Victoire doesn’t remember him, but sometimes she looks so much like him that I…” She trailed off, unable to finish her thought. She rubbed her eyes.

“Hey,” Harry said, patting her on the arm, knowing that she was unlikely to accept any further comfort. None of them were much for affection anymore.

“Ignore me,” she said, shaking herself. “Look, I do not know if you and Hermione are going to make it. But I do know that women need a little push every now and then. If you want to keep her, you cannot be storming out of your tent like a child when you should be talking to her.”

“Thanks, Fleur,” he said, taking a sip from his mug. “The tea’s shit, by the way.”

“I know,” she said, polishing her mug off. “You want another one?”

He squinted at his mug. “Yeah. Go on, then.”

 

*

 

“Hermione?”

She looked up from her book at him as he entered the tent, an imaginary hat in his hands and pure contrition on his face. Unbelievable. As if she wasn’t the one who should be apologizing.

“What are you reading?”

She held up the book. It was _Rebecca_ by Daphne du Maurier.

“Chipper.”

Hermione fingered the spine of it. “It seemed appropriate somehow.”

“So…” Harry scrunched his eyebrows together. “Would that make Malfoy, Rebecca? And…you’re Mr. de Winter.”

“I never said it was a perfect parallel.” She threw the book on the cot next to her. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

He bit his lip and looked down at his hands. “I just wish I had gotten to you first.”

She stood up and walked to him, cupping his face in her hands. “I wish you had too. Why didn’t you say something back then?”

He shrugged. “I was scared of you.”

“Of _me?_ ”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

She smirked. “Brave Harry Potter, not scared of anything. Frightened of a girl?”

“Well, you were a very terrifying girl.”

She chuckled.

“You’ll tell me, won’t you?” His face turned serious. “If this is ever not enough?”

“Harry…”

“No, Hermione. Please, let me say this.” He sighed. “I don’t ever want to get in the way. The only thing I’ve ever wanted was to make you happy.”

“Harry, you _do._ I should have never said that to you.”

_I didn’t mean it._

She couldn’t say that. She _did_ mean it.

He nodded. “I realize this is not an ideal situation. So…I’m just going to trust you. Because I can’t do anything else. Because if I don’t then my head will explode.”

She held her forehead against his. They stood like that for a moment, breathing each other’s air.

“Hermione,” Harry licked his lips. “I don’t want to lie to you. I can’t say it’s ideal to be caught up in some…demented love triangle, but—”

“It’s _not_ a love triangle, Harry. It’s not anything, or at least not any shape I recognize.” She sighed. “He’s not an option. I’m not pulling petals off daisies to figure out which boy to choose.” She grasped his head tighter. “I’m with _you_.” She took his hands in hers and looked down at them. “Harry, I don’t want to lie to you either. You asked me if I had feelings for him, and…believe me, if I thought it would do any good, I would carve my heart out of my chest to get him out of me.”

Harry nodded. It was the best apology he could have expected from her. “I love you.”

She grinned. “I love you too. And in a perfect world, I would love you like you actually deserve.”

“That sounds like a line.”

“I know. I really do love you.”

“I know.”

“I love him too.”

He inhaled deeply. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are not familiar with the reference, "Rebecca" by Daphne du Maurier is a British novel written in the 1930s about a young woman who marries an older, wealthy man and moves with him to Cornwall in his ridiculous, gothicy mansion by the sea. Whilst there, she becomes haunted by the ghost of his first wife, the beautiful, enigmatic Rebecca who is still somehow the mistress of the mansion. It's an absolutely delicious novel and I highly recommend it. In fact...what the hell are you doing reading my story when you could be out reading "Rebecca"????


	8. Brief Interviews with Hideous Men (and Sunny)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are curious, I listened to PJ Harvey's album "Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea" on repeat while I wrote this chapter.
> 
> The chapter title is inspired by "Brief Interviews with Hideous Men," a collection of short stories by David Foster Wallace.
> 
> As always, this chapter would not have been possible without my friend and beta SaintDionysus.

“Hand me that crate will you, Sunshine?”

The crate was rather heavy, so without giving it a second thought, Draco cast a mild _Leviosa_ to levitate it.

Sunny’s mouth opened in awe as he watched the crate float gracefully over to him. “I can never get enough of that.”

“What?”

“ _Magic_ , Sunshine. You lot don’t realize what it means to those of us who didn’t grow up with it. It’s… remarkable.”

This statement came as a bit of a shock to Draco. Never having spent much time around Muggles, he had never fully appreciated how magic came across to people who hadn’t lived with it their entire lives as he had. Though he had once proselytized that the magical nature of his family’s blood rendered him superior, he had never fully appreciated ‘magic’ as being, in and of itself, a particularly special thing. He had always taken it for granted.

“I’m not in love with that nickname.”

It was Draco’s first meeting with Sunny since he had made his initial visit with Hermione. Part of Draco’s job was ensuring that the sources for many of the other necessities the Order required (clothes, soap, potion ingredients) ended up in Sunny’s care before a member of the Order could come to collect it. It was a system that ensured no one person knew too much about the Order. Most of the suppliers would only know Draco, having never met any member of the Order directly. Draco, in turn, wouldn’t know the location of the Order’s bases. In terms of mechanics, he was really just a glorified middleman for grocers and shopkeepers; a distributor of bacon and toilet paper. Truly, the most dangerous part about Draco’s job was keeping his mouth shut.

Sunny grinned. “I could come up with something _more_ poncy if you’d like.”

Draco froze. Was Sunny _flirting_ with him? Sweet Merlin, he hoped not. If he had a Sickle for every bloke who thought he was bent just because he wore nice clothes and cared about his appearance, he’d be…well…richer than he already was.

The other man laughed at his obvious discomfort. “You should see your face right now. Relax, Sunshine. I do this to everyone. Even the ugly ones get a nickname.”

Draco visibly relaxed as he levitated the dozen or so miniaturized crates from his bag. “May I ask why Sunshine?”

“Because you’re a breath of fresh air on a hot summer day.”

 _Ah. A comedian_. Draco rolled his eyes and counter-charmed the crates to their normal size.

“It’s because of your _hair_ , you broody fucker,” Sunny said, sorting through the crates to see what Draco had brought for the Order this week. “What’s this?”

“Oh, um…” Draco ran a hand through his hair as his eyes fell on the box of books in front of Sunny. “Well…I just thought that some of them might appreciate something to pass the time.”

“You mean besides trying to overthrow a fascist wizard monster?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Just take the fucking books. Somebody will read them.”

“I see.” Sunny sorted lazily through the box. “And would ‘Somebody’ happen to have obnoxious hair and a delicious rack and Muggle parents and also be Hermione Granger?”

Years of compartmentalization had trained Draco to conceal his reactions when he wanted to. So, it came as an unwelcome surprise when he felt the very tip of his ears heating at Sunny’s accusation. He didn’t like being disarmed like that. “Granger, Potter, fuck if I care who reads them. Look, are you going to take them, or not? Because I can throw them in the fucking river if you’d prefer.”

“Calm down, Sunshine. I didn’t mean to offend you. Obviously, this is a touchy subject.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sunny shared a private smirk with himself as he regarded the blond Death Eater who refused to meet his eye. “Whatever you say, Sunshine.” He rifled through the books, most of which were biographies of famous witches and wizards, philosophy, and a few novels Sunny assumed were written by magical authors. He paused at a familiar title; a copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_. “I never did read this in school. I pretended to, but I just read the Sparknotes to write the report.”

Draco never could get over the revelation that Muggles studied things like literature and maths for their formal education; things that he had read about on his own time out of sheer curiosity. “I don’t know what ‘Sparknotes’ is, but you’ve got to read that book. It’s a classic for a reason.”

“ _You_ read it and I didn’t? Fuck.” Sunny shook his head and grinned. “You’re full of surprises, Sunshine. I didn’t think you magic-folk cared to read novels written by Muggles.”

“I like beautiful things,” Draco said absently. “I don’t care if they come from Muggles.”

“That much is obvious,” Sunny said with a smirk.

Draco’s eyes flashed at him. “Don’t be a smart-aleck.”

“Hey. I’m sure she will appreciate the books. For her, this is the equivalent of you bringing her flowers.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah.” Sunny nodded, carrying the box and loading it in his shed. “Whatever you say, Sunshine.”

 

*

 

Draco sat behind his desk and considered for the first time in his life that it might be better to be an ugly person than a good-looking one. On the other side of his desk were Thorfinn Rowle and Fenrir Greyback; two masterpieces of inbreeding and poor hygiene. Neither bathed often and it showed. Draco made a mental note to cast a triple _Scourgify_ on those chairs after they left. He also suspected that neither of them were aware of the necessities of oral hygiene. He hoped they would each maintain their currently surly dispositions so he wouldn’t be assaulted with the sight of the various shades of yellow and brown in their mouths. This is what he was forced to look at. All the while each of them were graced with the view of the rest of the world, almost every part of which was comelier than they. In a convoluted way, they were the lucky ones, really.

“May I offer either of you refreshments?”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Rowle said. During these briefings, he typically spoke over Greyback, even though technically he was junior to him. Greyback didn’t seem to mind, preferring instead to sit and brood. “We gutted that motherfucker,” referring to Bryson, the Order’s old contact, “from balls to tits and he didn’t say a fucking word. Least not one that were useful.” He leaned in. “I caught that Weasley chap because one of the Muggle scum in that shithole little village recognized his picture and thought we’d be grateful. And you brought us in here today because your Master thinks we just got lucky and he’s pissed that we don’t have nothin’ for him after you lot skinned Potter’s little faggot friend alive. Am I right about that?”

Draco tilted his head slightly. So, Rowle was aware of some of the talk regarding recent progress, or rather lack thereof, in the Snatchers’ Department. Too bad he was wrong in this instance. It would be oh, so very satisfying to lecture them right now. “This isn’t the woodshed, Rowle. I’m not here to reprimand you. Although, if you must know, the Dark Lord is a bit concerned that your Department hasn’t been able to sight Potter or any members of the Order after Weasley’s public execution. I won’t lie to you. He was counting on that. That does not, however, reflect badly upon you. The Dark Lord is not an unreasonable man.” As outrageous a lie as Draco had ever told. “He recognizes that Potter and his little friends have likely become more cautious since losing one of the most prominent members of the Order.”

“Then what the fuck are we doing here?” Rowle said with an almost bored shrug.

“I merely asked you here today because, as your commanding officer, I need to be briefed on your progress.” _Tell me what you’re up to, you fucking roaches._

Rowle looked at him with mild suspicion. “You ain’t never asked me to do that before.”

“This isn’t coming from me,” Draco lied. “The Dark Lord wishes to be informed of this matter at every stage. It seems he feels this war has lasted too long.”

“Then why ain’t he here to ask us himself?” Rowle asked.

Draco would have gladly given up half his fortune to witness Rowle ask the Dark Lord himself that same question. The man would be nothing but a greasy spot on the floor. “The Dark Lord has more important matters to attend to than meeting with every Snatcher in the Department,” Draco hissed coldly. “It is I who will update him of your progress.”

“You mean you’re the one who’s gonna take our credit?” Greyback asked, finally speaking up.

Draco grinned. “And what credit would that be precisely? As far as I can tell, there isn’t much to take.”

Each of the two filthy, hulking men snarled low in their throats at the young Death Eater.

Draco waved the comment away. “At any rate, you needn’t worry about that. Your progress is my progress and it is I, not the Dark Lord, who will see that you are rewarded. Surely you’re not so foolish as to think the Dark Lord believes that _I’m_ the one peeking behind every nook and cranny on the island for the rebels.”

“Damn straight you’re not,” Fenrir all but barked. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your pretty fingernails.”

Draco smiled cruelly. “Not all of us are as adept at digging in the dirt as you, Greyback. I’d wager you feel immeasurably more comfortable there.”

Greyback growled quietly and Draco turned his attention back to Rowle. “Do you have something for me or not?”

“I might do.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I don’t have time for you to be coy, Rowle. What do you have?”

Rowle sighed and sat back in his chair. “We think the Order has a new contact.”

An itchy heat started to spread on Draco’s palms, but he otherwise remained composed. “Makes sense. The old one’s not much use to them now, not after what you and your colleagues did to him.” His voice was steady. “May I ask what led you to this conclusion?”

Rowle scratched his jaw. “The way I figure, they’ve got to have suppliers. That Bryson cunt wasn’t much help in telling us who, but I don’t see how else they could get by.”

“Perhaps they’re self-sufficient,” Draco said.

“Nah. They move too much for that.”

“And how exactly would you know that? You’ve never found one of their bases.”

This was clearly a sensitive topic for Rowle. His face morphed into the least adorable pout Draco had ever seen and his voice defensively rose several decibels. “That’s why I know they move. If they stayed in one place too long, I’d catch them. You can be sure of that.”

Adopting a condescendingly obsequious manner often utilized in middle management, Draco waived off his former comment with an arrogant little flick of his hand. “It is certainly not my intention to call into question your no doubt superb _fetching_ skills. I’m certain you know what you’re doing.”

This comment evidently pissed Rowle off. He did not like being talked down to. _Good_ , Draco thought. _I’ll need him angry_.

“Is there anything else you need, _sir?”_ Rowle sneered.

Draco leaned back in his seat. “Well, if that’s all you have for me, a half-formed theory about a new contact, then I see no reason to detain you from your duties. After all, you seem to have a _lot_ of work ahead of you.”

Greyback nudged Rowle. “What about Krum?” As though Rowle were the one in charge.

Draco raised an eyebrow. _Krum? As in, Viktor Krum?_ Malfoy hadn’t thought about him since the end of fourth year when he had been thrilled to see the back of him as he fucked off back to Bulgaria, away from Hermione Granger. “Something else you want to tell me, Rowle?”

Rowle sneered. “It’s nothing official yet, but we think Viktor Krum might be willing to act as an informant.” Draco’s lips disappeared into a thin line. “And what, pray tell, inspired you to seek out an informant? Beyond the jurisdiction of your Department, no less? All informants must be given clearance by the Death Eaters after a vigorous background check. One which I seriously doubt your Department is trained to conduct.”

Rowle wasn’t letting Draco turn him into a whipping boy. “He approached _us._ Apparently, we’re a lot more approachable than you lot. Not as…what was it he said, Greyback?”

“Perfumed, poncey, and perfectly coiffed,” Greyback said evenly, taking obvious delight in parroting the Bulgarian’s rude words.

Draco adopted a cool demeanor. “My, my. I didn’t realize that Krum was capable of alliteration. Last I remember, he could barely speak English.”

“He thinks he might have an in. The Granger Girl,” Rowle said, stretching out the last two words like they were sweet, saltwater taffy. “He’s an old boyfriend.”

“I seem to remember,” Draco said, containing his voice, “that he merely escorted her to the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament. That was quite a long time ago.”

Rowle shrugged. “He says he fucked her.”

Draco’s hands were shaking. _Krum was lying. It was he, Draco, who took Her virginity, not Krum_.

“Had it occurred to you that he was lying?” Rowle absent-mindedly flicked a speck of filth off his jacket. “Maybe he was. But that’s for you lot to decide, not us. After all, it’s not like we have the training to do a background check, right?”

 _Oh, yes_ , Draco thought. _It’s going to be_ bloody _fun having you as my enemy_. “If he wants to help the Ministry, have him send me an owl and we’ll set something up.”

The three men sat in silence for a moment.

“You are free to go,” Draco said, with slight agitation in his voice.

Rowle left first. He sat up from his chair so fast, one would think that sitting for so long physically pained him. Greyback sauntered behind him, moving slowly. He locked eyes with Draco and mouthed the words, _Little boy_.

After they left, Draco felt exhausted. It was only recently that these sorts of meetings were starting to take so much out of him. At some point, holding back one’s emotions seemed a natural state. Lately, it had been a chore.

Krum was lying. He was sure of it. Hermione had definitely been a virgin when the two of them had first been together. Unless…Krum slept with Her after. And not that it was important to Draco that She had been a virgin, but the fact is that She said She had been. She would never had lied to him.

But just the mere thought of that hulking mass of troll shit even _touching_ Her made his blood run cold.

 

*

 

_Draco drained his goblet of spiked pumpkin juice as he watched Granger laugh and dance with Krum. He had expected the evening to be at best, an unremarkable piss up. But the moment Granger walked through those double doors on Viktor Krum’s arm, Draco’s heart had been throbbing in his throat._

_It was simply impossible to look away. So, he didn’t try to. If Pansy Parkinson, his date for the evening, noticed, she didn’t say anything, choosing instead to flirt shamelessly with Theo, Blaise, Greg, anyone else who wouldn’t be numb to her charms, the virtue of which mostly began and ended at her willingness to spread her legs._

_Draco was stunned. That was the only word that could possibly be appropriate for this feeling. It was a feeling which he was neither accustomed to nor did he appreciate. This was not supposed to happen. Granger was not supposed to be the sort of girl who could be won over by fame, muscles, and foreign accents._

Oh, but she’s supposed to be won over by wealth, status, and blood purity?

_Draco wasn’t stupid. He knew that Granger had started to look less like the a dry stack of babbling hair this year, and more like a girl, even if her changes were subtle. She stood up a little straighter. Her neck was a little longer. Her natural skinniness began to soften slightly, hinting at the sinful body that would probably come to pass given a year or two more of maturity. But the only reason Draco had noticed these changes was because he watched her like a hawk. It baffled him that someone else had noticed, especially if that someone else was the most famous Quidditch player in the world._

_It irked him. He’d never be able to compete with that._

You’ll never be able to compete, even if she’d walked in with bloody Longbottom. Your father would never stand for such a thing.

_Krum whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. A fetching blush stained the top of her cheekbones and she smoothed the skirts of her dress robes._

_Draco refilled his goblet. What the bloody hell could Viktor, the Troglodyte say to her that would be remotely humorous?_

_Did she like funny guys? Draco was funny. Lots of people thought so. Granted, Granger was less likely to find his ‘Potter Stinks’ badges or his dirty limericks amusing, but he wagered if she gave him a chance, he could make her smile a damn sight more than Viktor Krum could._

_He angrily sipped his pumpkin juice and stared at the pair as they cut across the dance floor. Granger must have finally discovered Sleakeasy’s hair potion because he had never seen her hair so straight and shiny. It was funny, he’d always assumed she had brown hair, but under the candle light, he could count a multitude of hues; almost a prism effect of auburn, gold, copper, and chestnut. Her lips looked like they had a little color on them too; a rosy pink. Odd. He’d never seen her wear makeup before. Her soft blue robes billowed gracefully with her movements; the color of the sky. And she was the sun._

_Draco mentally slapped himself. No need to be such a fucking ponce over a pretty girl. Seriously,_ that _was going too far. She was just a pretty girl. That’s it. The world was full of them. Nothing special about this one._

_Krum’s hand rested low on her back. Too low. And Granger seemed to lean in slightly to his touch._

_Draco could feel in the depths of his mind, as his future boggart changed its form._

 

*

 

Draco sat in deadly silence, tapping his fingers on the surface of his desk. In a flash he sent everything on the surface flying onto the floor.

Viktor Krum. That motherfucker.

The two of them had never exactly gotten on.

 

*

 

_“Malfoy,” Krum said as he took the vacant seat next to him at the dinner table._

_“Krum,” Draco replied, not looking up from his plate. At one time, the mere fact that the Seeker knew his name would have been enough to make him go full on fanboy. But since the Yule Ball, Draco had tried his level best to ignore the Bulgarian. Suddenly his presence at the Slytherin table wasn’t cool; it was inconvenient. The table was too crowded to accommodate the Quidditch star and his legion of groupies. Plus, the git never seemed to hear you when you asked him to pass the goddamned salt._

_“May I have a word with you?” Krum asked in painstakingly slow English._

_Draco’s knife and fork fell to his plate with a slight clatter. “What?”_

_“You have been upset by my presence here.”_

_Draco turned to face him, his eyebrows slightly raised. It was a bit surprising that the guy even picked up on Draco’s recently sour attitude towards him. “And why would you think that?” Perhaps he wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was._

_Krum began cutting his meat with nearly surgical precision. “I have heard that in this country those with pure blood do not associate with those from…um….” He struggled with the word. “Not magical families.”_

_Draco sighed and returned his attention to his food. “We don’t sully ourselves if that’s what you mean.” Never mind the fact that Draco would sully himself in a minute if Hermione Granger crooked her little finger at him. He’d sully himself all night long._

_Krum nodded. “There are many in your House who have told me to be careful with Harry Potter’s female friend because of her blood.”_

_“I imagine so,” Draco said, drinking deeply from his cup._

_“But none of them have been so…” He snapped his fingers as he searched for the word. “Hostile.”_

_“Well, maybe they don’t take their purity as seriously as I do.” Draco violently cut into his bloody steak._

_“Perhaps no.” Krum reached over Draco for the salt, not even bothering to ask if he would pass it. “Or perhaps you want her for yourself.”_

_The knife made a screeching sound against Draco’s plate as he sliced clean through a thick slab of fat on the end of the meat. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Obviously, the quiet Bulgarian was smarter than Draco had given him credit for._

_“I do not think so.” Krum took a bite of his own meat. “In fact, I am certain. The way you look at her when you think no one watches gives you away.”_

_Draco breathed deeply through his nose as he resumed chewing his food. Was this supposed to be a shake down? “Are you here to tell me to ‘stay away from your girl’ or some shite like that.” Merlin, he never would have dreamed of talking to an international Quidditch star like this a few weeks ago._

_Krum chuckled. “No. I do not believe you are a threat to me.”_

_“Well bloody good for you. Are we finished talking about this?”_

_Krum carefully set his cutlery down and looked Draco dead in the eyes. “I just want you to know that I know. And that Herm-ony will never want you like you want her.”_

_Draco chuckled humorlessly. “You really are stupider than a sack of niffler shit if you think I don’t already know that.”_

_“I just wanted to remind you.”_

_Draco glared defiantly into Krum’s eyes. “Message received.”_

 

*

 

So, Krum wanted to help the Ministry, did he? Draco hoped he hadn’t already made contact with the Order. It doesn’t take much to do a lot of damage. He’d need to talk to Hermione about it. But really, Krum didn’t worry him too much. It would be a simple matter to deal with him if he intended to double cross them.

What bothered him was the presumption that he had an ‘in’ with Hermione.

 _Disgusting._ At the heart of it all, Draco was still the angry little boy watching from the sidelines as other boys took the girl he wanted. He hated that his first instinct was to feel jealousy over concern.

It was a reminder; not only that she wasn’t his, but that she was better off for it.

Fuck this.

Draco made himself a promise. Krum would be vetted. The Order would be warned. Krum would be watched and would answer directly to him. And when the time came, Draco would rip his heart out of his chest himself.


	9. Remember How to Be Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music for this chapter is PJ Harvey's "Send His Love to Me."
> 
> Much love to my beta, SaintDionysus for helping me with this chapter! Seriously guys, writing this one exhausted me for some reason.

Hermione ducked as Harry threw an elbow near her eye. It was a close one. He was getting better, though still not fast enough.

His breathing was heavy. He was getting winded already.

Good.

He never saw her coming as she ducked, grabbing his knees and bringing his body to the ground. On his face was an expression, half surprised, half in awe. Pure delight.

He squirmed beneath her as she straddled him. Though he might have been stronger than her, she was more flexible. Harry was mostly useless on his back.

His eyes sparkled black, and he licked his lips. “I yield.”

“What’s that?” she asked, keeping her forearms firmly pressed on his biceps. Her lips hovered over his in a crooked grin.

Harry panted heavily. “I said,” his voice dropped to a husky timbre, “I yield.” He nipped at her jaw. “You win.”

A feminine cough cut through the tension. “You kinky kids should take that shit back to your tent.”

“Gin!” Hermione jumped up and ran over to the redhead, throwing her arms around her in a jubilant hug.

Ginny Weasley rolled her eyes. “Okay, that’s enough.” She leaned back to get a good look at her friend. “Lookin’ good, Granger. I’d fuck you.”

“Hey, Gin,” Harry came over to hug her as well. “You look well.”

She snorted. “I look like an angry bull dyke, but hey. If the shoe fits.” Over the years, Ginny had changed in appearance. Once, a pretty, feminine girl with long, flowing rust-colored hair, she had since shaved half of it off her head and plastered the exposed part of her scalp with various tattoos. The side of her head that still had hair needed a wash.

“I’m going for a dip in the creek. You two can gossip all you want.” Harry promptly placed a kiss on Hermione’s cheek, letting it linger a fraction longer than necessary; a promise. Clearly, he had been affected by their sparring. He always was.

Hermione smirked as she watched him walk away. “How are things in Scotland?”

Ginny had taken command of the Order’s Scottish base two years ago. It was small, but scrappy—much like the witch herself. She ran her camp differently than the southern counterpart, preferring a more direct method of eliminating their enemies. Guerilla warfare over subterfuge. Blood over magic. This dichotomy often created tension between Ginny and many of the more traditional, older members of the Order. When Remus Lupin was alive, he was one of more outspoken against Ginny’s particular code of honor or lack thereof in his opinion. But in the end, Harry gave Ginny full control over her own base. How she did it, wasn’t of particular concern. What mattered was that she delivered results.

And no one could say she wasn’t effective. At times, she might even have been _too_ effective. “That’s why I’m here. I lost two of my best wands last week.”

Hermione’s face scrunched in sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Ginny’s own face wore the shadow of the fury she obviously still held over the loss. “It was that sick fuck, Greyback.”

There was death, and there was death. Hermione wouldn’t have wished her worst enemy to die at Greyback’s hand. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated.

“Me too. But not as sorry as he’ll be once I sink my knife into his throat.”

Hermione’s gaze dropped to a 12-inch long bowie knife strapped to Ginny’s side, tucked safely in its holster. It had always slightly unsettled her that Ginny and her camp preferred Muggle weapons to wands in their assassinations, particularly when they were some of the most magically gifted members of the Order. But Hermione suspected that Ginny had come to like the blood.

“One of the witches, Mara, was torn from limb to limb.” Ginny looked positively murderous at the mere thought of the memory. Hermione suspected that Mara was more to Ginny than just a soldier.

“I’m so sorry, Gin.” It was the third apology. Social graces dictating what to say in such a situation had long escaped Hermione. _Sorry, sorry, sorry._ They were all sorry.

Ginny nodded. “You lot have your own problems.” Her once-pretty face became impossibly stonier. “Did anyone manage to retrieve Ron’s body?”

Hermione swallowed deeply. “No.” _I’m sorry_.

“Do we know for sure he’s dead?”

“I saw his picture in the Daily Prophet, Gin. It was…” she released a long puff of air, “fucking awful. They flayed him alive.” _I’m so sorry._

An almost grotesque frown twisted on Ginny’s face. But she did not cry. “Another brother gone.”

Hermione shook her head. “I hate that I have to keep saying this to you, Gin, but I’m so...” _I’m sorry._

The other witch held up a hand to stop Hermione. “I loved my brother. But he was closer to you and Harry. If anyone should be offering condolences, it’s me.”

“We’ve lost a lot. When all of this is over, we can mourn properly. For now…” She shook her head, letting a moment of silence build between herself and her old friend. “None of it seems real, does it?”

 

*

 

Ginny Weasley used to believe that there was an inherent limit to the amount of stress any one thing or person could bear.

In nature, water has a boiling point. Metals have their melting points. Surely, the elements of the spirit surely must behave the same way. Happiness must be able to reach a peak so great that any further happiness couldn’t be felt. Pain, despair, humiliation, disgust, and fear could be no different. Once the vessel is full, the world can’t possibly add to it. It would simply spill over.

Good and evil had to work the same way. There must be a limitation to the amount of wrong-doing a person could stomach. Likewise, an individual can only be so good.

But now she knew that it was bullshit. Eventually, given enough heat, water will vaporize. No matter how bad things get, they can always get worse. No one understood that better than Ginny. “I’m trying to think of the last time I saw Ron.” She shook her head. “I can’t. I think maybe it was in Wales. Maybe at Charlie’s camp, during Mum’s funeral.” She inhaled a deep breath. “Before they were wiped out.”

 

*

 

Sometimes Hermione forgot about that.

_Sorry._

Ginny’s jaw tightened. “This world isn’t fit for nice people.”

“No, it isn’t.” This conversation couldn’t possibly go anywhere good. “What do you need, Gin?”

“Bodies,” she answered without a moment’s hesitation. “We need a couple of people who don’t mind the cold and who won’t faint at the sight of blood.”

At this point, that could be anyone. “Let’s go talk to Harry about it. See who he can spare."

“Speaking of, how’s that going? I figured he’d have knocked you up by now.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Surely you’re not accusing me of stupidity.” There was an unspoken understanding in the Order that women were discouraged from having babies. They complicated matters. They screamed, they cried, they were one hundred percent reliant on others for their survival. In the Order, everyone was responsible for their own hide. While Harry would never dare tell a woman she couldn’t have a baby, by this point, everyone had sense enough to take the appropriate precautions.

Ginny shrugged. “Maybe one day.”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, her eyes drifting north, above the treeline. “Maybe.”

“What’s up?”

“Huh?”

“You’re acting weird.”

Hermione snorted. “ _I’m_ not acting weird.”

“Is something wrong with you and Harry?”

“Why would you think that?”

Ginny’s face fell. “Godric’s gonads, tell me it has nothing to do with that bellend, Malfoy.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “Why the _fuck_ would your mind go there?”

“Because you still kind of fancy him, don’t you?”

Hermione laughed incredulously at Ginny’s accusation. “I can’t even _begin_ to tell you how _preposterous_ —”

“Save it.” Ginny wasn’t particularly skilled in the social arts, but she knew her friend pretty well. “I heard Harry turned him.”

“Yeah.” Hermione looked at her feet. “Funny how Harry did it with just one conversation and I couldn’t seem to do it back when he was supposedly in love with me.”

“You know I never liked him for you. He’s a fucking arsehole and you always could do better.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “He’s not that bad.”

“Right. The Death Eating thing is purely ironic.”

“Gin,” Hermione exhaled. “Can we please just not talk about Malfoy?”

“Fine. I’ll drop it. For now.” She sneered. “Plus, I think I owe you one for interrupting the weirdest foreplay ever between you and Harry. And by the way, you’re getting cocky. Spar with me and I won’t go easy on you.”

“Harry doesn’t go easy on me.”

“Harry _definitely_ goes easy on you because he’s a horny little prat who just wants to skip to the part where you take your shirt off.”

“An excellent line you should use on him when you ask to borrow two of his best soldiers.”

Ginny smiled fondly at her friend. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

Despite her faults, Ginny had always been there for her.

 

*

 

_“Hermione. For fuck’s sake. Stop crying. What did Malfoy do to you? Because if he called you the ‘M’ word again, I swear to Merlin, I will cut off his—”_

_“_ _No.” Hermione ran a hand over her eyes to wipe away the tears. “He didn’t do anything like that.”_

_“Well, what then?”_

_Inhale in. Exhale out. “He…” she bit her lip, “he was drunk, and he—”_

_“I’ll kill him.”_

_“You don’t even know what he did yet.”_

_“Doesn’t matter. Nothing good ever started with ‘he was drunk.’ So what was it? Did he…did he try to hurt you?”_

_“Nothing like that.” She hiccupped. “He…he said a lot of things.”_

_“Any of them happen to have been the ‘M’ word?”_

_“No.” She wiped her eyes. It wasn’t clear to her why exactly she was crying, but the entire evening had been so surreal, she wasn’t certain how to process it. “He fancies me.”_

_Without missing a beat, Ginny sniggered. “Good one.”_

_“Gin, I’m being serious.”_

_“And it’s_ hilarious _, Hermione, but seriously, what did he do?”_

_Hermione’s mouth fell open as if she wasn’t certain how to proceed._

_Ginny’s face turned cold. “_ Obviously _, it’s a joke, Hermione. Draco Malfoy cannot fancy you because when this war hits, he’s going to be on the other side of it. You would just be a liability. He would just be a liability. It can’t happen. So, it’s a joke, right?”_

_Hermione’s open mouth made a sound. “Malfoy would never—”_

_“So, you do fancy him, then?” Ginny shook her head. “You are some kind of fucked up.”_

_“_ _I don’t like him like that. I don’t think I do.” It was a lie. It had occurred to her more than once over the past month or so that her feelings towards the Slytherin were spiraling out of control. One minute she wouldn’t trust him to spit on her if she was on fire, the next, seeing him was the highlight of her days. But Ginny didn’t need to know that right now. “I just…he’s nice to talk to. We have…interesting conversations.”_

_Ginny snickered. “You have ‘interesting conversations?’ Shit, Hermione, I’ve had interesting conversations with Professor Trelawney over the rubbish she sees in my tea leaves, but I’m not about to lick her pussy.”_

_Hermione wrinkled her nose at Ginny’s crass language. “Don’t be vile, Gin. I swear, you’re just like your brothers. And I never said I would lick his…you know.”_

_“Cock.”_

_Hermione shut her eyes tightly. “Could you please not say it so loudly?”_

_Ginny shrugged. “Why not? It’s a natural thing that all men have, even rubbish heaps like Malfoy. Make no mistake. Malfoy might not have a soul, but he definitely has a cock. And I’m betting that that’s exactly what he was talking with when he said whatever he said to you tonight.”_

_Sweet Merlin, she couldn’t have this conversation right now. “I will slap you into next week if you don’t shut your goddamned mouth.”_

_Ginny grinned. “There she is.” She pulled on a lock of Hermione’s hair and let it bounce. “You shouldn’t be crying over Draco Malfoy. Maybe he thinks he fancies you because you two weirdly get on well during patrols together and he likes the idea of pissing off his father. And maybe…don’t hate me, but maybe you like the attention so you get a little emotional when he tells you. But it can’t happen, Hermione. You know that.”_

_Hermione rolled her eyes. “I do not like the attention, thank you very much. I simply…” She sighed. “Look, I don’t know why it affected me the way it did. Perhaps I was just surprised. But Gin…he_ is _different.”_

_Ginny rubbed Hermione’s back. “You’ll get over it.” A somber look graced her pretty face. “It’s easier than you’d think to get over people you’re not supposed to want.”_

_Hermione put a hand on Ginny’s. “Do you have something you need to talk about?”_

_Ginny nodded and sniggered. “Yeah…um. I think I…” She bit her lip, bashfully. “I had sex with Michael.”_

_“Oh.” That was news. It always seemed to Hermione that Ginny didn’t actually care much for Michael. “So…how was it?”_

_“Good.” Ginny’s head bobbed in a series of nervous nods. “It was good. But…”_

_Hermione had never seen her best and only girl friend dance around a subject so shyly. It was clear there was more to the story. “But?”_

_Ginny released a huff of air. “I think I might fancy girls.”_

_This, on the other hand, was not news. Hermione had noticed the way Ginny’s posture changed every time Luna Lovegood walked into a room. She’d see the way Ginny tried to pretend she wasn’t watching the Ravenclaw girl, her face flushing over the failed effort. “It’s going to be okay, Gin.”_

_Ginny nodded. “I know. I just wish I could skip to that part.”_

_I_ _t was obvious her friend needed a hug, so Hermione gave her one. “Me too.”_

 

*

 

Back at the camp, Ginny and Harry came to an agreement that Neville and Padma Patil would relocate to Ginny’s camp. Both were excellent fighters and possessed strong enough constitutions to withstand the frigid tundra of northern Scotland.

“I really appreciate this, Harry.”

Harry nodded. “I may not always agree entirely with your methods, Gin, but I couldn’t do this without you. Anything you need is yours.”

Harry, Hermione, and Ginny walked together through the camp, observing their comrades-in-arms carry out their everyday duties. To the casual observer, it might appear that their operation was a well-oiled machine; every part doing its job, guaranteeing a low probability of failure. It seemed they could live like this as long as they wished so long as they continued to push through.

The issue wasn’t that they struggled to survive. It was that surviving was not the goal. The goal was to have their world back. The pieces of the Order came together in a fluid and cohesive way that worked well in theory. But because they were not living in a vacuum, their organized little camp was, in reality, dancing on the edge of a volcano.

“ _Aunt Gin!!!!_ ”

A gorgeous little blonde angel with blue eyes and freckles ran into Ginny’s arms. “Victoire! You’re getting so big.”

“I feed her.”

Ginny turned around to face the owner of the throaty, slightly accented voice which uttered those words. “Fleur.”

She nodded at her sister-in-law. “Ginny.”

Relations between the two women had always been tense. Ginny had never liked Fleur, even prior to the war. She would have preferred her brother to be with someone more ‘down to earth,’ like Nymphadora Tonks. Never mind the fact that these days, you couldn’t get more down to earth than Fleur Weasley. But it was the wrong brand for Ginny. Fleur had grown sturdy and unwavering. It clashed horribly with Ginny’s wildfire.

There was also the small matter that Fleur blamed Ginny for Bill’s death.

“You’re far from Scotland.”

“We had an incident at camp. I’m here to recruit.”

A shadow flickered in Fleur’s eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Ginny nodded. “Thank you.”

“It’s Victoire’s bedtime.”

“I won’t keep her.” She put the child on the ground with a cheeky scuffle at her hair. Her eyes narrowed as Fleur and her daughter disappeared into their own tent. “That one does not like me.”

“She’s tough on everyone, Gin. She has to be,” Harry said.

Ginny scoffed. “Did you see the look on her face when I picked up Victoire? She thought I would break her.”

“She did not.”

“She blames me for Bill. And she’s right in a way. If I hadn’t asked for his help, he’d still be alive.”

“Gin, don’t. You know that kind of thinking never gets us anywhere,” Hermione interjected. “We could all, to some degree, blame ourselves for every person we lost.”

Ginny shrugged. “I’m not trying to feel sorry for myself, Hermione. I’m just stating a fact. I don’t blame her. If I was her, I wouldn’t want Victoire near me either.”

“Gin…”

“It’s okay, Hermione. Really. Do you know how many people don’t like me? Doesn’t mean I have to get all fucked up about it. I’ve got more important things to worry about.” Ginny leaned in and whispered under her breath. “Speaking of, you really do need to get your shit together. We can’t afford you being distracted.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t even try to lie to me. You suck at it.”

Hermione had always struggled to dissemble. She had never truly seen the need for it. “I thought we had been through this. You said you would drop it.”

“I’m not going back to Scotland without having a real talk with you about this.”

“Gin, please don’t—”

“Just hear me out.” Ginny sighed and guided the two of them away from Harry. “Malfoy is nothing. He was just a fling you had in school. At best, he was a good fuck. Take it from me, a good fuck isn’t worth putting everything we’ve worked so hard for on the line. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices.”

Something about her friend’s face unsettled her. “Gin, I appreciate you trying to help, but I think you’re missing—”

“And if you can’t,” Ginny leaned in and uttered low under her breath. “you can always just fuck him to get it out of your system. Then you’ll see that we was nothing special and you can go on with your life.”

A whooping sensation in her stomach threatened to reacquaint her with her breakfast. “Gin…”

“I’m just saying. I wouldn’t judge you. What was that stupid thing people used to call you and the boys? The Backbone, the Brain, and the Beautiful Soul? Use your fucking _brain_ , Hermione. You know you’re no use to anyone if your head is stuck up your own arse. So just…you know, do whatever you need to do.”

It occurred to Hermione how very much her friend had changed over the years. It was an understandable change, she supposed. But it never failed to stun her. “I don’t think you understand. Malfoy and I were never just…” She caught herself. Talking about this wouldn’t do. It never helped. “I have no intention of cheating on Harry. Especially with Malfoy.”

Ginny shrugged. “Then get over it. Go back to your tent and give Harry the shagging of his life. Knit fucking socks for centaurs. Just do whatever you need to do.”

“Is that what you do, Ginny?”

Her face relaxed in a way that almost threatened humor, but with far darker connotations. “It’s all for the collective, Hermione. Don’t forget that.”

 

*

 

She needed a walk. Talking to Ginny made her feel…off. They had all changed over the years, but Ginny’s transformation was a bit more disorienting. At times, she seemed like the funny, carefree girl she had always been. Other times, she was something else entirely.

“ _Did you brush your teeth?_ ”

She was outside Fleur’s tent. It must have been Victoire’s bedtime.

“ _Yes, Mummy_.”

“ _Did you wash your face?_ ”

“ _Yes, Mummy_.”

Hermione should have kept walking. But something about the scene calmed her. Perhaps it was the innocence, the mundanity of it all. That something so pure and simple as a mother tucking her daughter into bed and worrying about her dental hygiene could still exist was a comfort to her.

 

*

 

“Did you fold your clothes properly and put them away?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

Fleur narrowed her eyes at her daughter. Detecting no hint of bullshit, she tucked the sheet all the way up to her chin and kissed her on the forehead. “Bonne nuit, ma chèrie.”

“Goodnight, Mummy.”

Fleur rolled her eyes. Despite her best efforts, her daughter only spoke to her in English, even though she understood French perfectly.

As she exited the tent, she nearly ran into a figure lurking outside the flap. “Hermione?”

“Fleur.”

She was cagey, Fleur noted. Hermione always seemed a little on the nervous side, but lately, she was positively neurotic. Probably something to do with that Malfoy man Harry told her about. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Just having a walk.”

Fleur narrowed her eyes at Hermione. Her bullshit detector was screaming. “You are a strange woman. Do you know that?”

“I’ve been told, yes.”

“And you are a shitty liar.”

“Again. I’ve been told.”

“Why do you bother lying to me? There really is no point. One, I do not care. Two, my four-year-old daughter shovels bullshit better than you, and she is no match for me.”

“Do you really blame Ginny for Bill’s death?”

Fleur’s eyes widened. “You are also shit at small talk.”

“I’m sorry. But…do you?”

She folded her arms and straightened her posture. “I do not care for Ginny.”

“I know that.”

“She’s got a chaotic soul.”

“She’s willful.”

“She’s dangerous. Her foolishness is the reason she is always here asking for new recruits she can take away to die at her camp. She takes too many risks, and her people pay for it.”

“…Oh.”

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I just…didn’t think you’d admit it.”

“Admit to what?”

“That you blame her.”

Fleur grimaced. “I do not blame her. She did not put a knife in my husband’s heart. I simply do not like her, but I put up with her because she is Victoire’s aunt. In case you have not noticed, my daughter is running out of family. Beggars cannot be choosers.”

Hermione nodded. “Do you think that it’s possible for us to remember how to be people, Fleur? After all of this is over will we be able to live the way that we were supposed to all along?”

Fleur looked at her like she was wearing a hair shirt. “I thought you were supposed to be clever. This _is_ us living. We do not have our lives on hold just because things did not turn out the way we believed they would. We are not waiting to start our lives. This…” she motioned around her. “This is not a holding place. This is life. And I refuse to feel sorry for myself or blame my misfortunes on other people. This is the _only_ life I have. It is mine, and I will live it whether I bloody well want to or not.”

It was Hermione’s turn to look surprised.

Fleur snickered at her bemused expression. “Brightest Witch of Her Age, my arse.”

 

*

 

Hermione was alone again. This evening had shattered her nerves; two extremely different conversations with two extremely different women, both of which were stronger and more well-adjusted than herself. She had come out of each feeling almost completely opposite things.

Ginny’s conversation would most likely be one of those things she brushed aside, too ugly to ponder. But Fleur’s insight was almost cleansing.

This was life. Right here in this moment, she was still Hermione Granger, if a little worse for wear. It didn’t seem right to her. But she knew Fleur was right. The question was, what did that mean? What would she do with this fact? What would it change?

The sound of a child’s tears pierced through Hermione’s fog of introspection. “Teddy? What’s wrong?”

Teddy Lupin was one of those kids it was impossible not to love. Seven years old, a true child of war, he had lost both of his parents before he could even hold his head up by himself. Ever since, his grandmother, Andromeda, had been his family. But through it all, this child never seemed to understand the depth of his misfortune. He climbed trees. He laughed. He teased Victoire mercilessly. His smile could brighten any day.

And now he was crying.

“Ms. Hermione.” He immediately wiped his tears away. Maybe he was more of a war child than he seemed; intent that no one should ever see him cry.

“Are you alright?”

“Ms. Hermione…” He hiccupped. “Did Mr. Ron die because of me?”

“Oh, sweetie. No. How could you ever think that?”

He wiped away another tear, smearing his face with dirt. “I heard Ms. Fleur talking to Mr. Harry. She said that she hoped I didn’t blame myself because Mr. Ron was getting medicine for me when the bad men caught him.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She gathered him in her arms. He smelled like grass and Fleur’s honey cakes that he and Victoire had likely nicked from her pantry. “The bad men are the ones to blame. Not you. Never you.”

“But…if I hadn’t been sick…Mr. Ron wouldn’t have—”

“Shhh.” She rocked him, and he cried into her shoulder. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I promise you, it’s not your fault. I promise you.” It was the easiest promise she had made in a long time. “One day, we’ll live in a world where we don’t have to risk our lives just by leaving this camp.” It was a harder promise to make.

Teddy pulled away from her. “What do you mean, Ms. Hermione?”

She looked at him in wonder. In that moment, she realized that Teddy Lupin, Victoire Weasley…these children were shining examples of Fleur’s point.

This was the only life Teddy Lupin had ever known. For him, there was no ‘remembering’ how to be human. There was only now.

Now was the time to love, to laugh, to mourn. If not now, when?


	10. Damned for All Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta love to SaintDionysus!

Viktor Krum had not changed a bit. He had the same chronically unpleasant demeanor, and his eyebrows were still too thick. When he walked, he still had the grace of a duck wearing ankle weights. The only thing that had changed was everything; the circumstances, the power dynamics, the conditions.

Draco loathed breathing the same oxygen as him. That, at least, had not changed.

“Can I offer you refreshments?”

“No.”

Internally, Draco nearly combusted with the desire to roll his eyes. The man couldn’t even be bothered to say, “ _No, thank you_.” It was like he had been raised by wolves.

Not that Draco could talk, having been raised by snakes.

“Excellent. If it’s all the same to you, I say we just skip over the niceties.”

“Yes.”

“For whatever reason, you want to spy on the Order. And you want to do it from the inside because you think that going to a ball with Hermione Granger ten years ago gives you some sort of special insight.”

His facial muscles had yet to move. Draco was eerily reminded of Snape. “It was more than that. Hermione and I were very fond of each other.”

“Congratulations. You’ve finally learned to pronounce Her name properly.” Draco squeezed the stress ball he kept in his desk for when he had to speak with a loathsome individual. “You say you were very fond of Her, and yet you want to betray Her. Why?”

Still no expression. Draco didn’t like that. He preferred his opponents transparent as well as dull-witted. Krum, sadly, only fit into the latter camp. “I was led to believe that Slytherins such as yourself understood the importance of self-preservation. Is it not better to be on the winning side?” '

His English at least had gotten better. “But why infiltrate? You could join the ‘winning side’ without risking your life. You wouldn’t have to live in some shithole bunker or wherever the rebels are camped out these days.”

“But this is how I will be useful to you. Hermione will trust me.”

“Will She?” Draco twirled the ball in his hands. “I’m skeptical of that.”

“Why?”

“Put yourself in the Order’s position. All of a sudden, Viktor Krum comes crawling out from his Bulgarian cave and wants to ‘help.’ They haven’t heard from you since the war. They don’t know who you are anymore. And you definitely don’t know them. Do you really think they’ll just accept you?”

The Bulgarian’s face warmed slightly. Draco liked this even less. “Hermione is very trusting.”

“She _was_ very trusting. But, She’s not a fourteen-year-old, bleeding-heart Gryffindor anymore. Now She’s a battle-hardened refugee who’d probably sooner put a knife to your throat than shake your hand. She’s seen her friends die. She’s killed people. Your little library dates don’t carry very much weight anymore.”

Krum’s eyes held a mild twinkle of mischief. “There was a time you were very fond of her yourself.”

Draco scoffed. So Krum wanted to stir up shit? “I was a randy teenager who had just discovered Mudblood porn. I was _fond_ of the idea of bending Her over a flat surface.” The words were disgusting in his mouth. “You do realize that if the Order finds out that you’re double-crossing them, they won’t hesitate to kill you?”

“I do.”

“And I’m including Hermione Granger in that. I cannot impress upon you enough that She is a far cry from the little slip in pretty dress robes you remember. She’s a killer. And you’d do well not to underestimate Her.”

“I will be careful.”

Draco couldn’t help but chuckle darkly. “Just what are your plans precisely, if you don’t mind me asking? Are you actually planning to seduce Her? Because you know She’s rumored to be warming the bed of their fearless leader, Harry Potter?” As if he needed fucking reminding.

Krum shrugged. “Boyfriends can be forgotten.”

As if he needed fucking reminding. “We’re not going to _pay_ you to get laid. We’ll pay you to get information. So, if you’re just looking for a quick fuck, then perhaps you should have gone straight to the Order and pledged your loyalty to them in earnest.”

“Still jealous?”

Draco’s face went still. He took a long moment to stare the older man in the face. “Not at all. My position on that front is unchanged. I still believe that your intentions with Hermione Granger were unbefitting to your blood status. A tumble in a broom closet is one thing, but you just had to put the Mudblood on your arm and parade Her around like She was one of _us_ , didn’t you?” His voiced raised and he could almost hear his father’s voice as the words left his lips. “And now you’re here ready to put your life on the line so you can have a go at Her. So, forgive me if I do not leap at the opportunity to put you on Ministry payroll.” The speech left foul residue on his tongue. He daren’t pause to consider the hypocrisy of the words, empty as they were. He’d rather just pretend he was someone else for a moment.

“You will have my full loyalty. I will even take the Vow if it will convince you.”

 _I’d rather kill you myself._ “That won’t be necessary.”

“Then what will it take to prove to you that I will not betray you?”

Draco had already made his mind up before meeting with him that he would accept his loyalty, such as it was, on behalf of the Ministry. Whether or not Krum kept his promise was of little concern to him. The Order would know every detail of the arrangement, and Krum would report directly to him. Eventually, Draco would dispose of him. But for now, it was important for Draco to play the precocious, jaded young Death Eater. “If I were you, I’d walk out that door and pretend that we never had this conversation?”

“Why is that?” “Because there are too many ways for you to fuck up and too few ways for you to succeed. If the Order catches you, you’re done. They’ll kill you. If you betray the Ministry, _I’ll_ kill you. Frankly, I don’t see many ways for you to come out of this alive.”

“I will not change my mind, Malfoy.”

A smug grin spread across his handsome face. “If we’re to be friends, you will refer to me as ‘Lieutenant Malfoy.’ Or ‘sir.’”

“That does not sound very friendly to me.”

 _Oh. Somebody thinks he’s got swagger_. “That’s because we’re _not_ friends, are we, Krum? I might accept your offer, but I don’t like you. And don’t think for a minute if you find yourself in trouble, that I’ll risk anybody else’s skin helping you. If they catch you and kill you, it’s no matter to me.”

“I understand.” Seeing Draco’s eyebrow raised in expectation, he added, “Sir.”

Draco chuckled darkly. “I do believe I’ve said everything possible to try to dissuade you. Seeing as you’re too thick to take my sage advice, I suppose I have no choice but to welcome you to the team.”

They didn’t even bother to shake hands. It was too hypocritical even for them.

 

*

 

_This memory was hazy._

_It was Theo’s birthday, so everyone in Slytherin had gotten rip-roaring pissed, and at some point, Draco had become bored by the confines of the dungeons. The people. The conversations._

_It was always the same._

_Pansy would sit in his lap and purr sweet filth into his ear. Her squirming would leave him, against his will, half-hard. He’d push her off his lap, utterly disgusted with his treacherous body. She’d be butthurt and divert her attention to literally anyone else in a bid to incite his jealousy, which of course, never worked._

_T_ _onight, she couldn’t even get in his lap before he spurned her advances. And no, fuck you very much, Montague, you wanker, he was_ not _bent. She was just the wrong girl._

_He needed a walk._

_At some point, wandering around the corridor, he stumbled across someone. A very pretty, often annoying someone to whom he longed to give many orgasms._

_“Granger.” He smirked up to his hairline in a failed attempt to look smooth. “Come here often?”_

_Her nose scrunched up. It was cute. “Oh no. You’re drunk.”_

_“You’re breaking curfew.”_

_“I needed a walk.”_

_“That makes two of us.” He stumbled over to where she stood against the wall. He might have imagined it, but her chest seemed to rise as he approached. He held out a hand to steady himself against the wall. “You’re looking very fit tonight, Granger.”_

_With a mighty roll of her eyes, she groaned at the line._

_“What? You do!”_

_“You’re as bad as Seamus when you drink. Honestly, you should get back to your common room.”_

_He reached out and stroked a curl. “But I’m happy here.”_

_She sighed, knocking his hand away. “So you say now, but tomorrow when we have rounds together I’ll wager you won’t even be able to look me in the eye. That is if you can remember.”_

_He snorted. Once. Twice. Three times until he was officially snickering. “Such a swot.” He suddenly grew very serious. “I’ve never been this close to you before, have I?”_

_She backed away at his observation. “Malfoy, go to bed.”_

_“I’m trying to go to bed,” he said, leaning into her and inhaling the scent of her recently-washed hair. Rosemary and mint. Very nice. “You smell so good.”_

_“Alright, Malfoy.” She put her arm around him and walked him towards the dungeons. “Let’s get you to bed.”_

_“Mmmm.” His face nuzzled into the soft skin of her neck. “Are you coming with me?”_

_“_ _Could you_ stop _being such a creep? I’m trying to help you.”_

_“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He seemed to sober a bit. “It’s just so hard to talk to you like this. I’ve tried, you know.”_

_“Tried what?”_

_“To tell you.”_

_“Tell me what?”_

_He yawned, the alcohol finally moving his body into the sleepy stage of his drunkenness. “That I fancy you.” He leaned back into her, not noticing when her knees buckled a bit under his weight. “Do you know what I dream of doing to you?”_

_Her face heated as she tried to regain her footing. “I…I’m sure you dream of doing a lot of things to a lot of girls.”_

_“Uh-uh. Just you, Granger.” He leaned in to steal another sniff of her hair. “You’re special.”_

_Something in her eyes might have troubled him had he been sober enough to appreciate it. There was a bit of hurt there. Perhaps because she didn’t believe in the sincerity of the comment. “Stop coming onto me.” She didn’t raise her voice, but it carried with it a tone of authority._

_It was enough to sober him slightly. He found a bit more footing as he helped move them towards the dungeons. “Granger?” His voice was small._

_“Yes?”_

_He sighed. “I think about you all the time.”_

 

*

 

The scent of the Firewhisky in his glass vaguely reminded him of that evening; an evening which he couldn’t even think about it without wanting to pull fistfuls of his hair from his scalp. What little he remembered of that night was completely humiliating. Of all the ways he would have told Her how he felt, that was the very bottom of the list. She deserved better.

But what he hated most was the fact that it had apparently upset Her; enough to send Her crying to the Weasley girl. She had believed he was just having Her on at the time; that he was just playing with Her.

He really should stop drinking.

The only reason he ever even revisited the memory was because of what the next day brought.

 

*

 

_It felt like a herd of miniature trolls had thrown an all-night orgy in his brain. He wanted to die._

_Worst of all, he hadn’t blacked out, which meant he remembered most of the shit storm from the night before, albeit imperfectly._

_He had hit on her in the sleaziest way. Salazar’s_ balls _, he would never be able to speak to her again. He remembered how good she smelled when he nuzzled the soft skin of her neck, and he wanted to sink into the floor and disappear._

_“There he is.” Theo plopped down on the couch next to him. “You disappeared last night.”_

_Draco shook his head. “I was absolutely wasted. I needed some air.”_

_“_ _You missed Daphne taking her shirt off for a dare.”_

_“Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll do it again sometime.”_

_Theo snickered. “They say Umbridge is starting an ‘Inquisitorial Squad.’ The members are like prefects, but grasses instead of swots. You in?”_

_“Have you ever known me to grass?”_

_“No, but there are perks. No curfew and we can take points away from anyone we want.”_

_“Sounds euphoric,” he deadpanned. “I’ve got enough to worry about.”_

_“Oh yeah?” Theo looked interested. “Prefect duties with Granger driving you to an early grave?”_

_He rubbed his temples. “Something like that.”_

_“She thinks she’s the same as you. She’s not. You should remind her.”_

_His tone sent a chill through Draco. Most of the time, Theo was a laugh. But every now and then he would say or do something that hinted at his potential for cruelty. It occurred to Draco that Theo might have been the perfect son to Lucius. “She’s harmless.”_

_“She’s_ not. _”_

_Draco turned to look at his friend and was startled to find a hardness in his face._

_“She needs to learn her proper place.”_

_This conversation was taking a turn Draco didn’t like. “I’m not going to get bloody expelled just to have a go in the Mudblood’s knickers.”_

_“Interesting that your mind went there immediately. Who said anything about shagging the bint?”_

_Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t be fucking coy. You know that’s what you meant. You and every other arsehole in this place have written bloody dissertations on the disgusting things you’d like to do to her.”_

_Theo shrugged. “It’s our right as purebloods. But of course, you’ve already claimed her.”_

_The pounding in his head was deafening. “What do you mean, I’ve ‘claimed her’?”_

_“You said she was off limits. Remember?”_

_“I…yeah.”_

_“So, that_ must _mean,” he leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper, “once the Dark Lord takes his proper place, that you want dibs on Potter’s Mudblood.”_

 _“She’s not_ Potter’s _Mudblood.”_

 _A slow grin crept up Theo’s face. “That’s right, mate. She’s_ your _Mudblood. Why not sample her first?”_

_Draco wanted to vomit. And he was fairly sure it had nothing to do with his hangover. “Can we talk about something else?”_

_Theo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay.” His face grew serious. “I’m just looking out for you, mate. You know that, right?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“I just don’t to see you squander your potential. Young men like us will be useful. Better to grow up now, yeah?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“No one will begrudge you having a pet. Fuck, even I have my eyes on that ditzy little half-blood Ravenclaw. The one with the barmy earrings.” He snickered. “Sure, it’ll piss off our wives, but we’ve got to have somewhere to go when they’re too pregnant with our heirs for us to get it up for them, don’t we?”_

_Hot bile churned in his stomach. “Yeah.”_

_Theo clapped his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Good talk. And you should go to Madam Pomfrey for a Pepperup Potion. You look like shit, man.”_

_He felt like it, too._

 

_*_

 

_He paced back and forth at the entrance to the castle, waiting for Hermione to join him. He had no idea what he would say to her. His best plan was to let her talk first and if she wanted to berate him, so be it._

_“Malfoy?”_

_He jumped at her arrival. “Granger.” His hands instantly flew up to his hair, smoothing it back. Like she gave a shit what he looked like. “Um…about last night—”_

_“Can we just…not? Obviously, you were completely hammered, and I doubt you even remember everything you said. I know you didn’t mean it, so we can just forget about it.”_

_Oh. Wow. That was easier than he expected._

_Except he_ did _mean it. Every last bit of it._

_He shrugged. “Fine by me.”_

_The two passed the next fifteen minutes in companionable silence before Draco broke first. “Okay, I can’t stand this.”_

_“Good, me neither.”_

_He chuckled. “I owe you an explanation.”_

_“You really don’t—”_

_“_ _Please.” He wasn’t sure what caused the delightful flush on her cheeks to appear, but it made it very difficult for him to concentrate on what he wanted to say. “I’m sorry I was so sloppy. I know I got a bit handsy with you, and I probably made you really uncomfortable, but you’ve got to know I would never…” Merlin, this sucked, “hurt you. Or anything.”_

_She nodded. “No, I know. It’s really fine.”_

_“No, it’s not. I wouldn’t blame you if you were uncomfortable patrolling with me knowing what you know.”_

_She cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean?”_

_He rolled his eyes. “Please don’t make me say it sober.”_

_She looked genuinely confused. “Draco, I told you. I know you didn’t mean those things. It’s okay.”_

_“Obviously, I find you…” He averted his gaze to the ground. “You know.” He was such a colossal wanker._

_“But…you were drunk.”_

_He squinted his eyes shut. “I was drunk. But that doesn’t mean…” He sighed. “People don’t lie when they drink, Hermione. They say stupid shit they’d never say sober, but not because they don’t mean them.”_

_Little puffs of air escaped her parted lips, causing them to flush an extremely distracting shade of pink. He wanted to trace her bottom lip with his thumb. “Oh.”_

_“Yeah. Look…I’m not a creep.”_ Yes, you are, you fucking sod. You watch her when she bloody eats.

_“No, I know.”_

_“I think you’re…you know. You’re very…” He rolled his eyes at his own inarticulateness. “You’re you.”_ What every girl wants to hear. Nice job, arsehole. Get used to the idea of dying lonely.

_“Right.”_

_“And your…_ youness _.” Salazar’s tit, he was inventing words now, “happens to be a collection of attributes that are very...appealing to me, but I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable because I can turn it off.” Probably._

_Her parted lips seemed to tremble, and the sight set Draco on fire. “Okay. I’m confused. So, you’re saying that you actually do fancy me? That wasn’t just Firewhiskey goggles?”_

_“Uhhh….” This was hands down, the most mortifying conversation of his life. “Yeah.”_

_“Oh. Okay.” She bit her bottom lip, making it flush an even darker. “Can I just…? Never mind.”_

_“No. No, go ahead. What were you going to say?” He must look like an absolute tit right now, the way he was so obviously gagging for her to say something…anything...to soften the blow._

_“Just…” She sighed. “Are you sure you don’t just like the idea of pissing off your father?”_

_Whoa. Um...he did not expect that. “Hermione, if my father finds out about this, he’ll pull me out of here and send me to Durmstrang faster than you can say ‘disappointing son.’”_

_“Oh. Okay.” Her eyes softened. She looked like she wanted to say something more, but changed her mind._

_Draco shoved his hands into his pockets and looked pretty much everywhere else but her. “So...yeah.” He almost shot her a thumbs up before mentally kicking himself in the balls. Even now, he couldn’t let himself be quite that uncool._

_“Um…so…we shouldn’t tell anyone about this conversation, then?”_

_He scratched the back of his neck. “That would probably be wise, yes.”_

_She folded her arms across her chest like someone who was trying to appear casual. “Okay. Cool.”_

_A faint smirk appeared on the corner of his mouth. “Cool.” She was so adorable. “Should we continue onto—mmmmmphhh.”_

_Her hot mouth covered his and it, was heaven. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Her scent was all around him, and her warm, soft body was against him. Her fingers threaded through his hair, making him forget his own name. He devoured her wet, greedy mouth like it was the only sustenance he’d ever need._

_He had absolutely no idea if he was doing it right, but his lips seemed to move against hers of their own accord as if they recognized her already. There was a faint ringing in his ears, which made him grasp her hips closer to him so he wouldn’t pass out._

_He miraculously had the presence of mind to back her against the stone wall. A soft “umph” was uttered against his lips at the contact, but he swallowed it whole, never letting her up for air for even a moment. He could die like this. Happily. Fuck knows why this was happening to him, but he did not currently possess the mental capacity to properly ponder it._

_The two of them stood in the corridor with him pressing their bodies against one another for almost twenty minutes. Soft exhales and little sounds passed through their mouths. Draco could feel his lips going numb and knew that tomorrow, they’d be chapped and swollen, but he’d sooner slap his grandmother than stop. What would he do once they finally did separate? In the short time since he’d come to known her mouth, he’d grown too accustomed to its subtle, sweet taste. The absence of her tongue slipping against his would feel foreign and wrong._

_“Mmm, Draco,” she said through his kisses._

_“Hmm?” He nibbled her bottom lip._

_“Draco?”_

_“Mmm.”_

_“Should we…keep going?”_

_“Fuck yes.” He pulled her closer and shoved his tongue deep into her mouth._

_She giggled, placing a gentle hand on his chest to put the tiniest bit of distance between them. “I meant our patrol.”_

_Draco cursed the space she put between them but was pacified when he saw that she didn’t look horrified over what they had just done. He twirled a curl between two fingers. “I suppose.”_

_She giggled again, and it made him feel ten feet tall that he was the cause of it. With one last, lingering kiss, she said, “The sooner we finish patrol, the sooner we can do that again. If you want.”_

_“Yes, definitely, I want to,” he said without hesitation. The fact that she questioned his enthusiasm to repeat their epic, world-altering snog baffled him. With the knowledge that she wanted to continue in tow, he allowed himself to steal one last kiss from her. “I like you.” Now that he’d had his tongue in her throat, he felt he could finally say it properly._

_Her lips were puffy and pink and utterly charming when she brought them up into the loveliest smile he had ever seen. “I like you, too.”_

_He brought his forehead to hers and breathed her in. “This is going to be a disaster.”_

_From that moment on, he knew that she had damned him. And he couldn’t have been happier about it._

 

*

 

He tossed back the remaining Firewhiskey in his glass with the wicked grin of a man who had long accepted his own damnation.

Fuck it all, it was still worth it.


	11. The Only Shape I'll Pray To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Hi guys! (dodges thrown vegetables and fruits)
> 
> I know, I know. I'm late. Despite this having been proofed by my lovely beta, SaintDionysus for days now, I've been too busy to get it up. AO3 is daunting, and this is a longer chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Lay here, my love. You’re the only shape I’ll pray to, Jezebel. -- Iron & Wine **

* * *

 

_The hard stone hit her back, and her hiss disappeared into his mouth. His roguish hands slid down her back and cupped her bum before pulling her tightly against him._

_She was going to be late for Charms, but for once, she couldn’t find the will to care. When Draco pulled her behind a tapestry and immediately set to snogging the life out of her, she couldn’t form the requisite coherent thoughts to cast even a basic_ Leviosa _. What use was Charms to her in the grand scheme of things? To solidify her decision to deprioritize her studies, she threw her leg around his hips and immediately gasped at the feel of his erection against her core._

_OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod, it felt so good, but it frightened her to the bone (no pun intended). Male genitalia remained in the realm of those things that existed, but she had yet to see in person, like the Queen of England, a suitcase full of a million pounds, or Machu Picchu. Like these things, a penis was something that was a little fantastic and out of reach, something that would stun her speechless should she actually be confronted with its reality._

_And Draco’s was currently pressing into her inner thigh like this was its regular Tuesday hangout. Draco didn’t seem to be embarrassed by it, probably because all of his designated brain blood had traveled south, nestled between Hermione’s legs. It was terrifying, but Sweet Merlin, he felt so good pressed against her._

_It was the third time they had done this._

 

_*_

 

_The first time, during rounds, they had stayed up for an hour past curfew snogging against the wall in a third floor broom cupboard. The stale aroma of dirty water and old lemons hung in the air, but Draco smelled like boy; like clean pheromones and hard angles and rich earth. She filled herself with his addictive scent until the two of them were left gasping._

_It was an unspoken agreement that they should stop when they did. Draco’s eyes were fused shut, and he grasped her waist so tightly, it seemed like he was in pain. But the reality was, the two of them were so turned on from kissing, that if they didn’t stop now, they were probably going to die. Either that, or shag against the wall, which neither of them were ready for…mentally and emotionally, that is. Physically, they were both all systems go, but to rush this…whatever it was, when they had only just begun, could be detrimental. So, they each went back to their respective common rooms with aching, shaking bodies. Hermione was so wound up, she’d had to bring herself off twice before finally falling asleep._

 

_*_

 

_The second time was the very next day. She was in the stacks of the library, reaching for a book on Elemental Transfiguration, when a warm hand curled around her waist and pressed against her stomach, pulling her back to the hard body attached to that hand._

_She knew it was him by the smell. And the audacity._

_“Good afternoon,” he whispered against her ear._

_She barely understood his words, so distracted was she by the vibrations they sent down her neck and through her body. She shivered. “Hi.” She was panting a little, and it was probably not very attractive, but he didn’t seem to mind._

_“I had a dream about you last night.”_

_Sweet. Morgana. She bit her bottom lip to hold back the dumb smile that was threatening to betray how pleased she was. “Is that so?”_

_“Um-hm.” He nipped her ear. “Would you like to hear about it?”_

_It was a terrible idea. “Yes.”_

_He pulled her so tightly against him, she could feel every angle in his body. He pressed the two of them against the bookcase. Anyone who walked by probably wouldn’t even see her, swallowed as she was by Draco’s frame. “We were on patrol.” Warm, pillowy lips grazed her earlobe. They felt slightly chapped, which was no surprise given how busy they had been the previous evening. Hers were in no better condition._

_“Sounds familiar.” Why was it so hot that she hadn’t seen his face since he approached her?_

_“You left your robes in your room. You were wearing that dark bra under your shirt.”_

_She grinned. “Keeping track of my underwear, Malfoy?” Who was this girl saying things like this?_

_“I might have noticed once or twice.” A pair of lips dropped to her neck. His breath was warm against her skin, and it made her dizzy. “You were swotting on about some nonsense or other.”_

_“Hey!” She tried to pinch his ribs, but he grabbed her hand and slowly dragged it to the shelf in front of her, motioning for her to hold onto it. She did as he bid, but her body was trembling._

_“And when we finally finished patrol…” He sucked a spot on her neck, causing her to make an embarrassingly indecent sound, “…You sat me down…”_

_She dragged her bottom lip into her mouth. “Um-hm?”_

_He panted against her neck, pausing in his story for effect as he rubbed circles against her hips. “And then you gave me a pop quiz about Howard’s Second Law of Cosmic Equations.” A stunningly dull topic Professor Vector had covered last week in Arithmancy._

_She giggled. “You did_ not _dream about that.”_

_“I swear to you, I did.” He joined in her laughter and turned her around to face him. He smiled when the two of them finally looked at each other properly. “Hi.”_

_“Hi.”_

_His head dipped to meet her in a kiss so sweet, Hermione’s cheeks ached from the effort she took not to smile too broadly. She probably looked like a proper idiot, but she could muster a single damn._

_“I thought it would be a completely different kind of dream,” she said._

_“What kind of dream is that?”_

_Coy bastard. He knew what she meant. “The kind that was…” His lips on her neck distracted her. “…A bit more…hmmm, that feels nice….”_

_“More what?” His tongue trailed against her jaw, and she was losing her mind._

_“More…dirty.”_

_“Dirty, huh?” His teeth took the soft flesh into his mouth._

_“Yyyeahh.” Nimue’s_ nipples _. That felt good._

_“I’ve had so many dirty dreams about you, Granger.”_

_Oh God. “Have you?”_

_“Yes, but those aren’t even my favorite.” He backed away and held her gaze. “I just dream of you. All the time.”_

_Everything went still except for the loud pounding in her chest. “You do?”_

_He nodded. There was a softness in his eyes she had never seen before. It made all the difference. He looked almost unrecognizable to the boy she thought she knew._

_His hands grasped both of hers, and they stood like that for a while in the stacks of the library; holding hands and not quite looking at each other, yet being aware of nothing more than the other’s presence. “This isn’t going to be easy.”_

_He was right. But she didn’t care. “I know.”_

_“I don’t know how this ends.”_

_She nibbled on her bottom lip. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to give her an out if she wanted it. Better now than later, and all that. But he obviously didn’t want her to take the out, because he wasn’t going so far as to overtly White Fang her. “I don’t care how it ends.” She unlinked their hands and wound her arms around his neck. “Right now, I just want this.”_

_And then she kissed him. It was different from their kisses of the previous evening. It was more serious, like they were sealing a deal between them. This was a kiss of understanding; saying what they couldn’t say in words._

_She could have stayed there all day with him. She could have stayed there forever._

 

_*_

 

_Today, they were back to the sort of frantic, soul-crushing, lust-driven snogging that started this whole barmy thing. Perhaps if they pressed their bodies a little harder and kissed a little deeper, they could actually fuse into one person._

_It wasn’t enough, and their separateness was a cruel reality. Hermione wanted to_ be _Draco. She wanted to feel him in her veins. And she was certain he felt the same._

_Chatter behind the tapestry disrupted their heady, snog-fueled nirvana. “I asked Parvati if Hermione was feeling alright. It’s not like her to miss class.” It was Ron._

_“Is she okay? Should we take her up some lunch?” Harry, the sweet friend._

_“I don’t know. Parvati said she seemed fine this morning and she left for Charms before anyone else did. She’s probably in the library.”_

_“Let’s go look for her.”_

_“She’s a big girl, mate. Maybe she just needs a personal day.”_

_Hm. Personal day. Yeah, she could go with that. Draco’s long fingers cupped her jaw and brought her attention back to him. She arched her back into him and accepted him gladly when he captured her lips again._

_“Hermione doesn’t take personal days.”_

_Little did he know that Hermione was hiding behind that very tapestry, enjoying the hell out of her personal day._

_After the two of them left, Hermione knew it probably wasn’t wise to stay tucked behind a tapestry snogging all day. “Malfoy,” she said through pulls of his insistent lips. “I have to…”_ _He wouldn’t release her. “I have to go.”_

_He acted like he didn’t hear her, kissing her with the same ferocity. “No.”_

_She giggled into his lips. “Yes.”_

_His teeth gently pulled at her bottom lip. “Stay.”_

_She groaned. He was making some good points. “No.”_

_She leaned back, dodging his lips as they chased her. “I really have to go.”_

_His breath was heavy. “Don’t go.” He leaned in to try and kiss her again._

_She chuckled and put a hand up as a barrier between their mouths. “I’m sorry. I actually do have to go.” With one last kiss on the cheek, she skitted away, making sure her clothes were in their proper place and trying to will the flush on her cheeks to die down._

_She left him leaning on his arm against the wall with a boner and a dumb grin on his face; the relics of her presence._

 

*

 

Sunlight peeked through the crack in the tent and Hermione opened her eyes. Warm, slightly damp flesh pressed against her back. An arm curled around her waist—an arm that did not have a Dark Mark.

She had dreamt of Him while she lay in bed with Harry. There wasn’t much use in feeling guilty about it because she hardly asked for the dream. But lately, He had been so much on her mind that perhaps her subconscious couldn’t be entirely blamed for concocting such vivid memories while she slept.'

Last night she had done as Ginny bid. Sort of. She had gone back to hers and Harry’s tent and shagged him silly. It seemed like ages since they had been intimate with each other and it was long overdue. Their sparring from the afternoon had left both of them worked up, desperate for release. It had been great, the sex. Afterward, they had cuddled up with one another and fallen asleep almost instantly.

Perhaps it was the lust that did it. The orgasm-induced slumber had altered the nature of her dreams and left her waking up painfully aroused.

She just wished she had dreamt of the right man. Harry Potter had always been the Right Man. He was, unquestionably, the textbook version of the Right Man; kind, brave, and handsome in a starkly masculine way. The kind with stubble and biceps.

Feeling undeserving of being naked on the same cot with such a man, Hermione stood up and stretched her aching muscles. She smirked at the memory of everything they did to each other last night. Sex with Harry was always so athletic. Physically, the two of them were extremely compatible, both being very strong and possessing impressive stamina. When she was with him, she truly didn’t think about Draco. It was only after.

Something near the flap caught her eye. A silhouette of a crate just outside their tent. Someone must have been to Sunny’s on a run. She dressed as quickly and silently as she could so as not to wake Harry, who was already making adorable moues in his sleep, patting the still-warm spot she had left vacant.

Pulling the flap back as carefully as possible to keep out light, she inspected the crate. On the top was an envelope with one word: _Bookworm._

She swallowed deeply, as she already had an inkling who this was from. She opened it to read:

 _I bring you books._ _They’re from my personal library, or as you would call it, my personal stash, since you practically inhale the things. I never have time to read anymore, but it seemed a shame to let all these wonderful words remain unseen by eyes that would appreciate them. I hope you enjoy them and if you want anything in particular, let me know, and it’s yours._

_—Draco_

With trembling hands, she sifted through the books. The smell of the pages and the hard, leather and cloth covers against her fingertips sent whirling, pleasurable sensations in the pit of her stomach. This was to her what apple crumble, and spring rain was to many people: a sensation that triggered within her a deep longing for a happier, simpler time. Nostalgia. She used to read so much. How many hours had she spent reading in a comfortable corner of the library as a child from the moment it opened until nightfall without even registering how long she had been there? Reading had been a glorious, lucrative time suck for her. How long had it been since she had sat down all day to do anything as quaint as read? Somewhere along the way, she had traded her books for barbells. In many ways, it had been good for her. She had an understanding and trust of her body that would have made her unstoppable as a teen. She was confident in her own skin. Like all things, she took to the physical realm with an academic slant in her approach, and unsurprisingly excelled.

Still, the feel and smell of those books made her want to hide away in a hollow tree for days, just _thinking_ and learning for no reason other than she could. She still read books when she had the time; at night by lantern-light. But she had read every book in the camp. Books weren’t easy to come by, and they certainly weren’t a necessity, not even for the children, who preferred playing to dreaming.

The tent flap moved, and Hermione instantly crumbled up the paper in her hand.

Harry’s eyebrows scrunched together. “What’s that? Books?” He chuckled as he bent down to inspect them. “Why?”

Hermione shrugged. “Does it matter? It’s nice to have some new reading material around, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hmm.” He stood up and kissed her lingeringly on the cheek. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” He always looked so good when he woke up. Hermione loved his unruly, jet black hair. With his stubble and his bright green eyes, he looked like some sort of wild forest god.

Fleur approached the two of them with a raised eyebrow at their just-out-of-bed looks. She, naturally, had been up for hours. “I went to Maldon this morning to pick up some things.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Harry said.

She fixed her gaze on Hermione. “Sunny says that Malfoy needs to speak with you about something.”

Talking about Draco in front of Harry was so awkward, it made the heels of her feet sweat.

“Why?”

“Sunny dd not know. If he did, I’m sure he would have told me and passed the message along, and it would have saved you a trip.”

Harry smirked. “Are you ever going to accept his offer to take you out?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed, but Hermione didn’t miss the hint of pink on the tops of her cheeks. “Take me where? I’m a mother and I have been in hiding for the past seven years.”

“A picnic, maybe? Sunny’s an excellent cook, you know.”

She rolled her eyes again, this time with a hint of humor behind them. “I know. Victoire loves his lavender biscuits. Although, why, I will never know because they taste like soap. He always puts extra in the bag, and I tell him that he’s going to spoil her, but of course he never listens to me.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile. Fleur was always flustered when she came back from Sunny’s. He apparently was ‘insufferable,’ a word which Hermione knew all too well to mean that Fleur was deeply attracted to him, but felt she shouldn’t be for whatever reason.

“You know,” Harry said. “Muggles are immune to Veelas’ charms. If he likes you, it’s just because he likes you.”

Hermione thought it truly was not fair how pretty a blusher Fleur was. A lovely, subtle rose hue bloomed against her pale skin and for a moment, she looked every inch the devastating eighteen-year-old who stole the hearts of every boy at Hogwarts with a simple toss of her hair. “I do not care,” she said, obviously lying. “Anyway, I have delivered my message, so you two can go fuck yourselves and your 9 a.m. wake-up time. Some of us actually have to work.”

“Goodbye, Fleur,” Harry said in a warm, sing-songy voice as he wrapped his arms around Hermione’s middle. He chuckled when she flipped him off in response.

Hermione felt his chin on her shoulder and his warm lips on her cheek.

“You don’t have to leave right away, do you?”

His angle was so obvious, it was borderline adorable. He wanted to shag her silly right before she went to meet with Malfoy. He wanted to give her something to think about and maybe leave a love bite or two to mark his territory. Men really were dogs.

“I’m sorry, it sounded urgent. I really should go sooner rather than later.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s just Fleur’s accent that made it sound urgent. Everything she says sounds urgent when she’s pissed off.”

She chuckled. “Maybe, but this could actually be important.”

Letting his forehead drop on her shoulder, he sighed in defeat. “Later, then?”

“Later.” She kissed Harry on the cheek. “I’ll see you later,” she repeated. As she walked away with Draco’s note still crumpled in her fist, she knew she couldn’t turn around to look at Harry. She knew what she’d find.

A man too good for her.

 

*

 

“Wicked Witch! Just in time for breakfast.”

It always baffled Hermione how Sunny was constantly cheerful. She’d wager ‘Sunny’ wasn’t his real name at all. “Is Malfoy around?”

“Inside. He’s being a brat and refusing to tell me what all of this is about.”

“That sounds like him.”

“You hungry? I made crepes.”

As if she would say ‘no.’ Hermione never ate food as precious as crepes unless she came to Sunny’s. At camp, it was usually stews, bread, the occasional fry up. “Lead the way.”

Once inside, Hermione ignored the whooping in her stomach at seeing Draco sitting comfortably at Sunny’s table enjoying a milky cup of tea. He looked, predictably, wonderful. He could have been in an advert for whatever type of tea was in His cup. She would certainly buy it. She imagined she looked a fright. “Malfoy.”

He glanced up at her with a little spark of playfulness in His gaze. “Why do you call me that?”

“Huh?” Such a brute.

He chuckled as He set His mug on the table. “You haven’t called me ‘Malfoy’ since we were fifth years.”

Oh. That. She honestly didn’t realize she was doing it. At some point in her mind, He had just become “Malfoy,” a dark relic of her past. It was a clear juxtaposition to “Draco,” the man she once was convinced was the love of her life. “Do you not want me to?”

One of the corners of his mouth slightly raised. A soft smirk. “You can call me whatever you want, Hermione. I prefer ‘Draco,’ of course, but it’s not up to me.”

“I’ll call you ‘Draco.’” A small concession.

He nodded. “Well. Now that that’s settled, I suppose you’re wondering why I called you here.”

“I assume because you miss my devilish wit and dark eyes.” _You slut._

He laughed. “As charming as those things are, I’m afraid it’s a matter of slightly more import.”

There was a time that nothing was more important than flirting with her, so Hermione knew it was serious. She sat in the seat in front of Him and gladly accepted Sunny’s tea offering. “What’s up?”

Draco glanced at Sunny, who hovered close by the table. “What? Am I seriously being kept out of the loop?”

“Mind your own business, Sunny.”

“You would deprive me of hot goss when I’ve made you crepes?”

“Are they ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why don’t you be a doll and go get them for us?”

Sunny rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky that Wicked Witch is here.”

Once Draco was satisfied that Sunny couldn’t overhear them, he lowered his voice and said, “Viktor Krum is going to come to you and ask to be inducted into the Order of the Phoenix.”

Hermione snorted in amusement at Draco's hilarious joke. But then she noticed his face. “Oh my God, you’re not joking.”

“I'm afraid not.”

“ _Viktor?_ I haven’t seen or heard from him in years. How is he?”

His shoulders relaxed slightly. “He’s lucky I haven't slit his throat.”

“Hm. So...not good, then.”

“You can’t trust him. He’s working for the Ministry.”

Hermione nearly dropped her mug. “Viktor?”

“Yes.”

“As in, Viktor _Krum?_ ”

“Do I need to start from the beginning? _Yes_ , Viktor Krum.”

Sunny emerged from the kitchen carrying two heaping plates of hot crepes with blackberry compote and clotted cream, along with a smaller plate full of bacon. “I should probably warn you two that my walls aren't actually very thick and I can hear everything you’re saying.”

“Cast a _Silencio_ ,” Draco said.

“A what?”

“Oh, right. Sometimes I forget that you’re a Muggle.”

“You know, from a magical Nazi, that means a lot, mate.” Draco rolled his eyes and accepted a plate graciously. “You’re not by chance a Quidditch fan, are you, Sunny?”

Nothing in Sunny's face indicated that be recognized the word. “Can't get enough of it. That's the new thing that's spreading around in Germany that looks like pink cocaine, right?”

Hermione sniggered. “I think it's safe to talk in front of Sunny, Draco.” She rubbed her temples, vaguely registering the delightful scent of berries and vanilla wafting under her nose. “I…I can’t believe he would try to betray us like that. Merlin, I haven’t even seen the git yet, but I already want to strangle him.” She took an angry bite of Sunny's delicious breakfast and felt a teensy bit more peaceful.

“You’ve got to let him in.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Sunny, I don't know what you did to these, but I have to say, they really are a triumph, mate.”

Hermione put a hand up to silence Sunny's 'thank you.’ “What do you mean we have to let the lying sack of spy shit into our camp?”

“I’m his commanding officer. You know that in order for this arrangement between us to work, I still have to play the dutiful Death Eater. And that means that when Viktor Krum offers to spy for the Ministry, I can’t turn him down.”

“I understand, Draco, but you’re asking us to compromise everything.”

“Hermione, I would never do anything that would put you in harm’s way. You have to know that.” He looked like He was about to reach for her hand, but they both realized Sunny was watching them intensely. Draco straightened his posture and redirected his attention back to his breakfast. “Krum will report to me, and me alone. His information will make it no further, and he will be prohibited from having contact with any other member of the Ministry. He signed a magical contract to that effect. I assure you, you’re perfectly safe.”

“Perfectly…Draco, do you even hear yourself? You’re asking me to put a double-crossing scumbag into our ranks and just _pretend_ that we don’t know that he’s spying on us.”

“I don’t know if you two care what I think,” Sunny interrupted.

“ _We don’t_ ,” they simultaneously responded.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Sunny stole a slice of bacon off Hermione’s plate and turned his attention back to the show.

“I never said it would be easy,” Draco said. “But it’s what we’ve all got to do to keep this thing going. To be fair, I did warn Potter that I would just be more trouble for him if I went turncoat for the Order.”

There weren’t any flaws in Draco’s plan, except His confidence. Or perhaps He was just pretending for her benefit. But He was right. They needed Him to still be the seemingly perfect Death Eater, and that meant sometimes making things more difficult for themselves. But this was _so_ risky. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Draco. She knew that He was loyal and that He’d do everything in his power to keep her safe. But that fact alone wasn’t enough to ease the swallowing of this particularly bitter pill. “Fine. We’ll accept Viktor, but we’ll still be careful not to give him any job that’s too important.”

He nodded. “Glad that’s sorted.”

Sunny smiled, crunching another pilfered slice of bacon and looking back and forth between Draco and Hermione. “I don’t even know what’s going on, but I can tell it’s _all_ kinds of fucked up.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. She noticed that Draco looked rather tense about something, like he was holding back. “Anything else?”

 

*

 

He shouldn’t bring it up. He _really_ shouldn’t. But the petty, jealous little boy in Draco couldn’t resist. “You didn’t fuck him, did you?”

“What?”

“Krum. You didn’t fuck him. Right?”

Sunny dropped his bacon and stood from the table. “Oookaaay. I just remembered I need to wash my hair.”

“ _Excuse me_?” Hermione said.

“Apparently Krum told Rowle that you and he—”

“How can you even ask me that? You know that you were…” She lowered her voice in case Sunny was lingering near the door, “…my first.”

A softness appeared in Draco’s eyes. “I know. I’m sorry for asking, but I just…” He breathed heavily. “I knew you and I were together first, but I just wondered if perhaps the two of you reconnected after the war started.”

“And when would that have happened, exactly? At what point when I was running and hiding for my life would I have had the time to write to my old pen pal and invite him over to war-torn England for a chat and a shag?”

Okay. He had obviously upset her. There was a possibility he had made a mistake in bringing this up. “I didn’t mean—”

“ _Not_ that it should matter, but I’ve only ever been with you and Harry. I imagine by this point you can hardly claim the same fidelity to my memory.”

He didn’t want to answer that. “I’m sorry for asking. And I know I have no right to. And I didn’t think you had really ever been with him, but I just…I needed to hear you say it, so I don’t end up throttling him. He has a tendency to be suggestive when it comes to you.”

She released a bitter laugh. “I’ll never understand men and their ridiculous need to own everything.” Male, he was, but Draco understood enough about women—Hermione, in particular—to know that it was best not to point out that women could be just as bad. He looked down at his hands, folded in his lap, and smiled. He remembered a sixteen-year-old wonder who plagued Pansy Parkinson with stinging hexes for a full week.

_“WHAT!!!!!!!!!????”_

_“I didn’t do it! I kicked her out.”_

_“When?”_

_“What?”_

_“_ When _did you kick her slutty arse out of your bed? After getting a good look at her?”_

 _He stifled the urge to laugh at how adorable his girlfriend was when she was angry. Well…at least he_ hoped _she was his girlfriend. They hadn’t properly discussed labels, but from the way she reacted to the news that Pansy Parkinson had shown up in his bed, uninvited and unclothed, asking him to take her virginity, he’d wager that Hermione was not opposed to the idea of exclusivity. He savored the treat of this knowledge and tried his level best_ not _to act like a douchebag at that moment by pointing out her obvious jealousy. He doubted he’d be able to do it in a way that resembled anything close to humility. “I promise you, I have no interest in Pansy, clothed or not. I barely even registered that she didn’t have clothes on. I just wanted her gone.” He approached her and put his arms tentatively around her waist. “Why would I tell you about this if I had done anything wrong?”_

_She rolled her eyes. “I guess you wouldn’t.”_

_“Um-hm.” He pulled her closer and kissed her firmly on the lips, coaxing her to kiss him back. “You are the only witch, Hermione. You’re all I want.”_

_Somehow the sight of her trying not to smile was more intoxicating than if he had actually made her smile. “Really?”_

_He nodded and stole another kiss from her increasingly agreeable lips._

_“_ _Even though I keep my clothes on when there are a hundred girls in this school who would gladly get naked for you?”_

 _“_ _Even then.” He kissed her again, softly this time, and gently cupped her cheek. “Pansy may not know it, but I’m a taken man.” There. He said it._

 _She giggled._ Hermione Granger _giggled. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” She leaned into his chest and allowed herself to be hugged by her newly acknowledged beau._

_The top of her head fit perfectly under his chin, and his eyes fluttered at the perfect pleasure of their fit. A jolt of male pride ran through him as he felt her say against his chest, “I wish I could claim you.”_

_He wished it too. He wanted everyone to know they belonged to each other. Her lips were his for the kissing. His hands were hers to hold. Potter, Pansy…nobody else mattered._

_Another bout of damp warmth echoed against his chest as she said, “I’m hexing that bitch.”_

And She did.

“What? What are you smirking about?”

“Nothing.” In that moment, Draco was fifteen again. It didn’t matter that he felt about sixty due to the stress and sleep debt he’d acquired over the years from his drinking habits and stressful job. It didn’t matter that he was sitting in a farmhouse in Maldon instead of a library table at Hogwarts.

Something about the casual way they were sitting together bolstered the fantasy he had failed to kill in his soul. The sensation of being 15-years-old with her trumped reality, so that it actually seemed so. They were young, foolish, and in pre-love. Her every quirk and flaw was filtered through this fond narrative he had of Her so that She appeared perfect to him. Or _for_ him. It was a devastatingly lovely delusion he’s once harbored.

As a man, he knew better. Hermione Granger was a deeply, perhaps irrevocably, flawed individual. He could now see those flaws for what they were, but the effect was no different. She was still perfect for him, if not _to_ him.

It was a gift, seeing Her again, so that he could know this. Otherwise, he’d have been stuck in that cruel, beautiful lie he’d crafted as a 15-year-old and missed out on the glorious creature sitting across from him now.

She narrowed her eyes at him over her mug. “What are you thinking?”

How to answer that where She wouldn’t run away? “You’re different.”

This seemed to displease Her, though She tried to hide it. “I know that. You’re different too.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

Something in her face told him that She didn’t believe him. “It feels like a bad thing.”

What had She been through all these years? He’d often thought of her when it was cold outside or raining, and he was tucked away in the comfort of his home with a hot, usually Firewhiskey-laced, drink. He wanted to hope that She was warm and dry and happy, but he somehow knew She was spared those basic comforts. All those years, he wished nothing more than to make things easier for Her. Now he could. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but how are you?”

He could tell from Her face that it was ridiculous. “I’m…” She shook Her head. “I don’t know how you mean that question.”

“I don’t know either, exactly.” He was out of practice speaking his mind. Obviously, he wasn’t doing it quite right. “I suppose I just need to know that you have everything you need; that you’re not hungry or cold or tired or scared.”

“I’m…” A nervous laugh. “You see me sitting here gorging myself on Sunny’s crepes, right? It’s just this conversation that’s making me uncomfortable.”

“I meant _generally_. Not now. Obviously right now you’re fine, but I mean…” He needed to take a moment to say this right. “When you’re not with me, how do I know these things? I want...I _need_ to know that you at least have the life basics covered.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, Draco.”

“I don’t _choose_ to worry about you, Hermione. It’s a nasty habit I haven’t quite been able to kick.” He returned his attention to his crepes. Today was not a good day for words.

She set her knife and fork delicately on her plate. “Draco, I’ve been all of those things over the years at various points. But now, I’ve gotten so used to being tired that I don’t even feel it anymore.”

That was what he’d been afraid She’d say. He chewed his food slowly and said in a quiet voice, “I wish I could make things nicer for you.” It sounded pathetic, but there it was. The idea of making life _nicer_ for a person whose very existence was criminalized was a daft notion. Her life was constantly in jeopardy, but Salazar help him if She didn’t have enough fucking blankets.

She laughed sadly. “Things are nice enough for me. I know you don’t believe it, but I’m fortunate. Lucky, even.”

He assumed she meant Potter. “I wish I could give you the world,” he whispered.

Her eyes fell to Her plate, and she swallowed loudly. “I don’t have any use for the world, Draco. Not anymore.” Silence. “But thank you for the books. You gave me a piece of the world, anyway.”

He breathed a smile. “Let me know when you want more, and they’re yours.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Draco.”

“It’s not a matter of debt to you, Hermione. I do it because I need to.”

“You need to?”

“Yes, I bloody need to.” His voice raised and he was certain Sunny could hear him as he fake-washed his hair. “I _need_ to know that somewhere in the world, Hermione Granger is reading a book because then there will be at least one goddamned thing that makes fucking sense to me.”

Her eyes looked feverish in the wake of his small outburst. Perhaps he was finally explaining himself in a way She understood. “Alright. Thank you.”

They made the most ridiculous picture. A Death Eater and a Muggleborn refugee eating a fluffy, adorable breakfast together, arguing about books. It seemed trivial; frivolous, even, in the grand scheme of things. But Merlin help him, it felt amazing to have a frivolous conversation, even if it wasn’t his most successful one. “You’re welcome.”

She smiled as She took a bite of her crepes. “I haven’t had anything this good in a while.”

His eyes flickered to Her. “Oh?”

“Not…” She became flustered. “That doesn’t mean you need to worry about me, Draco. I get plenty to eat nowadays. Ever since we developed this system, things have been better. It was really only in the beginning that things were…” She bit her lip. “Well...things weren’t quite as nice.”

He hated to imagine it. “I don’t suppose…” He cleared his throat. _Don’t ask her, Draco. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough today, and She’s miraculously still sitting here with you. Don’t max out your prat points today._

Fuck it. He was going to ask Her anyway.

“Do you still have your coin?”

He instantly knew that She did. Just before She feigned confusion over his question, there was an honest moment in Her eyes that told him everything he needed to know. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 _Liar._ “ _Our_ coins, Hermione. The ones we used to communicate back in school. I still have mine.” Tucked away in the top drawer of his desk. “Do you have yours?”

He understood Her hesitation to answer. If She spoke honestly, he would certainly ask if they could use them again, which would put Her in an awkward position. If She lied, it would hurt his feelings. For all the flaws he knew She possessed, She was not cruel. She had never been that. “Yes.”

Honesty, then. That was a gift She had no obligation to offer to him. How selfless of Her to tell him the truth. In return, he would spare Her the burden of asking too much of Her. After all, he had said that he wished he could make her life easier.

Knowing that She kept it was enough for him. “I’m glad.”

A beam of sunlight hit the window and bounced off her unbrushed, bushy hair with its multitude of colors. She reminded him of a Muggle painting he once saw in a book. He couldn’t remember what the book was about, but the painting was of a Christian goddess named Mary who lived in a cave in France. There was more to the story, but he couldn’t remember the details. He just remembered the brave, lonely look on this beautiful wild woman’s face; all in the name of God. He wasn’t sure if she was a deity some Muggles prayed to or if she was merely venerated for being especially wonderful at praying to some other god. The details of Muggle religions never interested Draco much. He wasn’t even certain how prayer worked.

But he believed it had something to do with being grateful. He could see how Muggles would admire a woman like Mary, the Cavewoman; someone so good and selfless that they forsake all comforts and loves to devote themselves to a higher power. It was a worthy altar upon which one could worship.

He watched Hermione sip her tea and stare pensively out the window as the steam from Her mug disappeared into Her mass of hair; the ends separating even further in response to the humidity. She’d be horrified if She knew how frizzy Her hair was, but it certainly didn’t bother him.

Perhaps he had prayed before and just didn’t know it.


	12. Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was pretty heavily caffeinated when I wrote this, but I'm happy with it. Writing and inspiration for this fic has been flowing pretty freely lately (sweet merciful muse!) so hopefully I'll have another chapter out soon for you guys! I consider this chapter to be something of a transition into the actual plot. (Gasps) Yes. I can wrote those.
> 
> Much thanks to my lovely SaintDionysus WHO IS CURRENTLY PHYSICALLY IN MY CITY AND HAS BEEN HANGING OUT WITH ME ALL WEEK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> Enjoy :D

Harry was pissed.

Today might have been a wonderful day. He woke up this morning naked and hopeful that Hermione might be convinced to come back to bed for another luxurious hour. That, predictably, went to shit the moment she heard that Malfoy needed her for something.

And of course, there was the Malfoy Problem. Harry did a decent job hiding it, but every day he regretted that he had ever invited the git to join the Order. Every time his name was mentioned, Hermione’s pupils would change shape and she’d be rapt with attention for however much longer Malfoy was the subject of the conversation. Every time he saw that, this resplendent transformation in his girlfriend over another man, Harry’s nobility chipped away a little bit more. This morning was no different. Sure, it had been duty before pleasure, as always, but Harry suspected that for Hermione, seeing Malfoy was a bit of both.

Then there was this whole goddamned mess Malfoy had gotten them into. Malfoy, in his infinite gitty wisdom, expected the Order to jeopardize their safety to admit a man they _knew_ was out to betray them. Oh, and as if that wasn’t already fucking enough, said man apparently was aching to get into Harry’s girlfriend’s knickers.

Joy.

“Say something, Harry.”

He ran a hand through his hair, willing himself to think carefully before he spoke. “What am I supposed to say, Hermione? I guess Malfoy knows best, doesn’t he?”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Be like _what_ , exactly? Hermione, I’ve been a motherfucking _saint_ about having Malfoy in our lives. And you know why? Because I realize that despite my own personal preferences, which by the way would be to throw the silver spoon motherfucker into the goddamned sea, it’s the best course of action for the Order. But _Krum_? Am I supposed to be happy about this?”

Her cheeks were painted pink either from guilt or suppressed frustration over Harry’s seemingly misplaced outrage. “I’m not happy about it either, Harry. But maybe I should point out that we wouldn’t even _be_ in this mess if you hadn’t gone after Ron on your little revenge quest.”

She just _had_ to bring that up. “I fucking apologized for that, and don’t you pretend that you weren’t _overjoyed_ to have Malfoy finally on your side.”

“How _dare_ you?”

“Tell me I’m wrong, then.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the only sound that came out was a mildly croaky note of incredulity. So, he was right, then. He’d say this about her, Hermione couldn’t lie to him. “Why is this suddenly about _me_? You’re upset about Krum. I didn’t do anything.”

He chuckled darkly at her blithe lack of self-awareness. This powerful sense of rightness, of being the one who saw what the other didn’t see in themselves, this must be how pre-Malfoy Hermione had felt all the time towards himself and Ron. “Of course not. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the fact that every time someone so much as _mentions_ Malfoy, you practically wet yourself. And yes, I absolutely do mean that in the fun way.”

He could tell he had taken it too far from the way her chin wobbled. She was hurt, but she wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —cry about it. “I…I’m sorry.”

Fuck. Now he just felt bad. “I didn’t mean…I didn’t want you to—”

“It’s fine. You’re not…” She took a breath before finishing her thought. “You’re not completely wrong.”

His Adams apple bobbed in his throat. “We’ve discussed this.”

“Yeah.”

“At length. I understand that it’s going to take some time for you to sort out this thing with Malfoy. And believe me, I’m _trying_ to be patient.”

“I know.”

“It’s just that I wasn’t expecting this. And I took it out on you and I’m sorry.”

“I deserve it.”

“No, you don’t. I have no right to speak to you like that. You were just the messenger. And it makes me a shitty leader, not to mention boyfriend, if I misdirect my anger at you.”

“Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

“Right.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “I guess we have an announcement to make to the camp.”

“I guess we do.”

“Um…Hermione?”

“Yeah?”

He opened his mouth to say that in the future, perhaps Malfoy should bring these sorts of things to _his_ attention. Perhaps using Hermione as a conduit for information isn’t the most efficient use of anyone’s time.

But then he realized that Hermione would see through it immediately for what it was: a jealous boyfriend trying to micromanage her. And truth be told, Hermione was probably the best possible person to handle things like this. After all, the last time he had received bad news about Ron’s death, he had stormed Buckingham Palace with a hazy half-plan to slaughter Snatchers.

“Nothing.”

 

*

 

Everyone was pissed.

Not at Harry and Hermione, per se. Unlike Harry, it made little difference to the others in the camp if Malfoy made eyes at Hermione, so their frustrations were allocated more appropriately towards Viktor Krum. But nobody was very enthused at the prospect of welcoming a known spy into their ranks.

Fleur was especially pissed. “How am I supposed to _not_ poison him?” The fiery Frenchwoman’s cheeks glowed pink with simmering rage. “Fucking Viktor motherfucking _Krum_ , that _arsehole_. To think I invited him to my fucking wedding!”

“Mum,” Victoire said, tugging at her mother’s blouse. “You’re not supposed to say bad words.”

“Mummy’s stressed, darling. Mummy can say whatever she wants.”

“To answer your question,” Harry said, “we’re not suggesting that you all be pleased about this. Up to this point, we’ve had to do a lot of things to survive, but acting isn’t one of them. We’re as upset as you are. But it’s only temporary.” He assumed this was true. “And I have absolutely no intention of putting Krum in a position where he could hurt anyone.”

“So, what does that mean? Where exactly will you put him where he will not be able to do that?” Fleur demanded. “If you think you can put him in surgery with me, you are out of your fucking—”

“That,” Harry said, “is a fantastic idea. You’ve been saying that you need someone to help you for a while, Fleur.”

The silence swirled between them. “Harry, darling, you have never been very funny,” Fleur said.

“I’m serious.”

“Harry,” Hermione said, touching his arm, “are you absolutely certain that the _surgery_ is the best place to put Krum where he won’t be able to hurt anyone. _Think_ about it.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “I definitely hear what you’re saying. And I respect your concern. But you’re wrong.”

“ _How_ exactly am I wrong?” Hermione wasn’t used to hearing the words, ‘you’re wrong.’

“Yes, Harry.” Fleur’s hands flew to her hips. “How exactly is the fucking _genius_ wrong?”

“Krum doesn’t want to hurt anyone in the camp. He just wants to gather information. But he won’t have access to our strategies if we isolate him in the surgery.”

“Wow. Thank you so much, Harry,” Fleur said. “I am so pleased to know that the _surgery_ is where you put the useless people to keep them out of the way.”

“Oh, come _on_ , Fleur. You know how vital you are to this camp. You notice everything that goes on in this place. If anything, I’m putting him in surgery so you can keep a close eye on him. You’ll be like our counter-spy.”

“Don’t patronize me, Harry Potter. You think I cannot see past this litany of horseshit you are throwing at me?”

“Harry,” Hermione interjected again, “information isn’t the problem. He only reports to Malfoy, and we can trust Malfoy. In this instance, I’d say putting him in a situation where he could easily sabotage the camp, like surgery, would be more dangerous than giving him a combative role.”

“Yes! Yes, listen to your girlfriend. She is smarter than you, Harry, and she knows best.”

“Again,” Harry said, “I hear you. But I’d rather not take any chances. It doesn’t hurt to have another layer of protection between us and the Ministry besides just Malfoy. If he tries to sabotage anything in the surgery, it won’t go unnoticed by Fleur. This is the best way.”

“Mummy,” Victoire, who had not moved during the exchange, tugged again at her mother’s shirt, “Harry won’t let anything bad happen to us. You always tell me we should do what he says.”

Fleur rolled her eyes. She had been bested by a four-year-old. “Fine. But I will not be happy about it.”

“Thank you, Fleur.”

She rolled her eyes again. “Shut the fuck up, Harry.”

 

*

 

_He prayed to Her in a language she had never heard before; a language he didn’t even know he could speak. The silent words he conveyed as his tongue danced across Her exposed flesh were nothing short of words of worship; that much they both understood._

_“Draco.”_

_That one word was heaven; the way She said it, more so than the word itself, as he certainly had heard her say his name before, but never quite like this. It was a cadence full of anticipation, desire, and a little bit of fear._

_“Draco.”_

_He dipped his tongue in Her belly button._

_“Draco.”_

_Desire began to silence the sound of fear as She chanted his name softly the lower his tongue journeyed down Her body._

“Draco!”

An entirely different kind of sound, fists pounding on his bedroom door, dragged him abruptly from his dream world. He groaned at the interruption.

“Draco! If you’ve got someone in there with you, now would be a good time to send them home.”

It was Blaise. “Hold on,” he grumbled at the door as he grabbed for his robe. His house elf must have let Blaise in, despite Draco’s express directions that he be left alone. It was useless to be annoyed, as this was likely regarding the sort of business that trumped any wish Draco might have had. He opened the door. “What?”

Blaise’s eyes did not betray a hint of surprise at Draco’s ruffled appearance and the residual stench of Firewhiskey. “The Dark Lord wishes to see you.”

“Why?” he asked tightly.

“He is holding a meeting. I believe it concerns the recent incidents in France.”

Blaise was referring to the rallies in Paris. Minister Devereux was up for re-election this year, and his constituents made their position exceedingly clear regarding the upcoming decision of whether to abolish the French Statute of Secrecy, following in Britain’s footsteps. They were almost unanimously against it.

Since ascending to his position in the Ministry, the Dark Lord had made many attempts to persuade foreign ministries that the British model was best for society. Try as he might, the Dark Lord’s sway did not carry the international reach he had dreamt. While his vision for magical society had come to fruition in Britain, the rest of the world was much more skeptical. France in particular had been difficult. So recently, the Dark Lord had met with Minister Devereux to discuss “baby steps” in an effort to better solidify the friendship between their two nations.

The meeting was a disaster. The people of France needn’t have been concerned, as the French Minister showed negligible interest in implementing the Dark Lord’s philosophy into his own government.

“I assume this meeting is happening right now?”

“You assume correctly. But you should clean yourself up a bit first.”

“Alright. I’ll be there soon.”

With a short nod, Blaise turned away as Draco shut the door. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the other wizard. _You should clean yourself up a bit first_ was Blaise-ese for _You look like shit fucked garbage and if you show up like this, the Dark Lord will string you up by your nut sack._

Not that Draco had ever heard Blaise use any of those words. He had rarely heard the guy use regular words, even when they were in school together. He had never seen him laugh or lose his temper. He doubted he’d ever even cracked a grin. In fact, if Draco hadn’t actually witnessed Blaise performing magic, he’d swear he was just an elegant golem, designed to be coldly obsequious and prompt in following directions; the Dark Lord’s very own Hermes.

He splashed his face with water, massaging his facial muscles to reawaken them, feeling a small amount of eye trash rinse away with the water. He felt mildly more alive than he had five minutes ago and infinitely less alive than he had six.

 

*

 

“Ah, Draco, my boy. Good of you to join us.”

 _Fuck you_. “I’m happy to be here, my lord.” He took a seat between his father and Blaise. Lucius’s eyes bestowed a slight chastisement upon him for his lack of punctuality. Blaise, predictably, did not react.

Draco looked across the round table at his colleagues and wondered whether the grotesque metaphor was lost on them. The Dark Lord insisted that all meetings such as this take place at a round table that he had special-made for such occasions. It made sense in a perverted sort of way. The history of Great Britain as a collective nation was said by many to have begun around a table much like this one, led by a charismatic leader with daddy issues. Now, however, Camelot was dead and the heirs of Merlin finally took their rightful place as the true leaders of Great Britain.

The metaphor certainly wasn’t lost on Draco. In fact, he found it exceedingly and ruthlessly vulgar.

“We were just discussing how we might handle the French rebels.”

Interesting word choice. Draco wondered if people could truly be considered “rebels” if they agreed with their own government’s policies. “I heard about the rallies.”

“Minister Devereux has yet to make a public statement on the matter. However, it is my belief that he will prove to be…” a whisper of an expression, “disappointing.”

“My Lord, if I may.” Lucius. Draco hadn’t spoken to him since their last dinner. “Is it wise to initiate a conflict with a foreign government when we have rebels at large in our own country?”

Lucius Malfoy, the last true Slytherin; hesitant to sacrifice needless resources, and unwilling to get blood on his cashmere suits.

“Pardon me, dear Lucius,” the Dark Lord said. “But I do believe you misspoke when you used the term ‘initiate.’”

“My Lord?”

“You see, it is impossible to initiate something which has already begun. Minister Devereux has no intention of being a true ally to Great Britain, though he has not publicly taken a position on the matter.”

Draco was powerless to stop the slight slouch in his shoulders at the realization that he had been summoned not, as he believed, to a preliminary meeting, but to a war council. From the nonplussed expressions of his colleagues’ faces, it appeared he was not alone in his desire to avoid a war with France. He must have still been slightly drunk because he barely registered the words coming out of his mouth: “My Lord, I believe what my Father meant to say was that the time is not yet ripe to formally declare war on a nation that has yet to support or denounce us. Why not give diplomacy one more try before resorting to open conflict?”

Twenty pairs of eyes fell on him. It was impossible to tell if these eyes held admiration or admonition in their gaze. Was he the little boy who adorably recited poetry from memory in front of his parents’ friends before shuffling off to his bedtime, or did he just call everyone’s mum a whore?

Several long, screaming moments of silence later, the Dark Lord’s face began to tick. Slowly, painfully, the expression revealed itself to be a grin.

Acceptance then. He was the ‘good boy Draco’ today.

“It never fails to surprise me how keen the Malfoy men are to avoid conflict. I do believe you all would sell your grandmother if it meant making certain everyone behaved themselves.”

Toadying, relieved sniggers all around. With a wave of the Dark Lord’s hand, the sounds died. “Nevertheless, Young Malfoy is right. It would behoove us as a nation to make a rash decision before we gave our continental friends one final push, wouldn’t you agree, Draco?”

Draco was mildly startled to hear his name. Obviously, he agreed. It was his bloody idea. “Certainly, my Lord.”

“Marvelous. I know you won’t let me down, Draco.”

 _Oh, sweet buggering fuck._ “My Lord?”

“Since it was your idea, you will no doubt wish to be the one to carry it out. See that you force Minister Devereux to understand our position.”

This was Dark Lord-ese for _See that you pound some good British sense into that French faggot’s Bordeaux-gargling, brie-fucking little brain._

“My Lord, surely you’d rather send someone more experienced.” Uncle Rodolphus. Draco could never figure out whether he liked him or not. The man had an odd sense of humor that occasionally amused Draco, but he was also a real sonovabitch. Sometimes, Draco found himself to be oddly amused and simultaneously horrified by his uncle’s actions, like the time Rodolphus pulled Bellatrix through the streets of London by her hair after walking in on her with Fenrir Greyback’s cock up her arse. The infidelity didn’t bother him so much as the fact that she had willingly fucked a mangy half-breed. Under the Dark Lord’s new law, Rodolphus was well within his rights to dispose of Bellatrix in any way he saw fit. His verdict? If his whore wife liked fucking animals so much, she was more than welcome to have at it. So, he threw her to a tribe of trolls with explicit instructions that they were not to return her to him until she had been well and truly fucked by each and every member of their tribe. She was returned in pieces. Rodolphus’s response? He shook his head and laughed. Draco remembered his blood-freezing quip: “Only Bellatrix could survive Azkaban only to be killed by a herd of troll cocks.”

Draco had always hated his aunt, and certainly didn’t mourn her passing. But something about the callous way Rodolphus’s eyes lit up as Bellatrix was torn apart in front of him was unsettling to Draco. It was Nero laughing as Rome burned. If Rodolphus wanted to go to France himself, as far as Draco was concerned, he could have the fuck at it.

“Nonsense, Rodolphus. I have every faith that Draco is up to the challenge. In delicate matters such as this, surely you can see the merit in utilizing that famous Malfoy charm.”

His uncle’s watery eyes sneered at him from across the table, and the lines in his jowls seemed to deepen. Draco understood the frustration. It always made him uncomfortable to see older, more experienced Death Eaters overlooked in his favor. But none of them, Rodolphus included, could ever begrudge him too much. After all, denying a straight order from the Dark Lord would earn him the kind of death that would make dying covered in troll cock look like a mercy.

“I won’t let you down, my Lord.”

 

*

 

“Walk with me.”

Draco stifled an eye roll at his father’s request. “I’m afraid I have pressing matters to attend—”

“As important as these imaginary matters are, I must insist.”

He failed to stifle the eye roll this time. “Fine.”

Draco allowed himself to be Apparated to Lucius’s study at the Manor and immediately made a beeline to the bar cart.

“Really, Draco?”

“You insisted.” He poured himself three fingers of Firewhiskey and immediately took a hearty gulp. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“This mission.” The subtle click of Lucius’s dragon-hide boots moved across the floor as he paced. “I believe I should be the one to go.”

“The Dark Lord wants _me_ to—”

“Minister Devereux will not take you seriously, Draco. You are a twenty-four-year-old aristocrat with little experience in diplomacy. The Dark Lord knows this, but he has no interest in avoiding war with France, so it would matter little to him if you failed.”

“But _you_ do? Want to avoid war, that is.”

“Negotiation is cheaper than war, Draco. Not to mention, it’s infinitely less messy. And, as it happens, I do agree with you. Our priority should be in pooling our resources against the rebels.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You _agree_ with me?” He chuckled darkly. “I hope you don’t mind if I stick that memory in a Pensieve for myself because that’s definitely a first.”

“Don’t be a smart aleck. I’m trying to help you. You have other duties that require your attention, Draco. Finding the rebels should be your top priority. The Dark Lord gave you a task force and you should damn well use it.”

“I am.”

“Then you should know that it is most unwise of you to antagonize Fenrir Greyback.”

Draco marveled at his father’s talent of just  _knowing_  things. “Who told you?”

“I keep my ears open, Draco. Greyback might be a subhuman vulgarian, but he is far from unintelligent. It would require only a modicum of the most basic manners on your part for him to be useful to you. Your mother _did_ instruct you well in the social graces, did she not?”

“Don’t you _dare_ mention Mother.” The words left him in a single silky breath, which oddly seemed to prove more effective than had he raised his voice.

The other man went quiet. “Tend to your regular duties, Draco. There is no need to make things so difficult for yourself.”

Oh, now he had to do it. Draco could feel the urge to prove himself as a diplomat bubbling in his veins; an ambition he did not know he had. “Thanks for your concern, Father, but I believe Minister Devereux and myself will get on swimmingly.”

Lucius’s mouth disappeared into the thinnest of lines. “Let me only say this. Playing the diplomat and ridding the countryside of rebels leaves little time in your schedule. Time, you should allocate to socializing, Draco. You are very young and it worries me that you do not seem to be taking advantage of this vital time in your life.”

 _That_ was a load of bollocks if ever Draco heard one. “Let me guess. I should be spending time with other people my own age, particularly lovely young pureblood women who are not yet betrothed.”

A corner of Lucius’s mouth raised a fraction. “Is it worth my time to even mention that Alastair Greengrass’s daughter, Astoria, was asking after you the other day?”

“No, it’s not.” He remembered her from school; Daphne’s sister, a few years younger. Technically speaking, she was easily the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life, but Draco found it impossible to be attracted to her. She was nice enough and certainly no idiot, but her perfect manners and careful warmth reminded him too much of his mother. Draco was fucked up in many ways, but an Oedipal complex was not one of them. He’d loved his mother, but he’d never be able to make babies with someone who raised her teacup in the same manner or chose similar topics of conversation when in polite company. Even her laugh was similar.

“Need I ask what is wrong with her, or should I assume that her hair is too straight for you?”

Draco bit his tongue to keep from spitting venom at his father’s insinuation. “You can assume that if you wish.”

“You’ll have to marry eventually, Draco. And I can assure you that whomever the future Lady Malfoy may be, she will be nothing like Hermione Granger.”

“Careful now.” Draco glared at his father. “You wouldn’t want one of your house elves to overhear you. Especially because I could throw you to the wolves just as easily.” He leaned in and uttered in a low voice, “Like it or not, we’re in this together. You saw to that yourself.”

“Despite what you may think, Draco, I only ever have acted in your best interest. Everything we have done has been for _your_ future. Not mine.”

“I doubt that.”

“Believe what you want, Draco. But I am growing older and my ambition for myself has waned. Your future is the _only_ ambition I have left.”

Draco sneered at his father’s attempt at humility. “What an incredible waste of ruthlessness that is.”


	13. Two Coins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Those of you who follow me closely will know that I just posted another WIP this week; a crossover of the Queer Eye reboot and Harry Potter with side Dramione. It's called YAAASSS QUEEN: Queer Eye Comes to Hogwarts. Don't worry. This won't effect my writing on this fic. They both are coming pretty easily.
> 
> Music for this chapter is Nat King Cole's "Nature Boy" and Ramin Djawadi's cover of "Heart-Shaped Box" for the Westworld Season 2 soundtrack. Shout out to SaintDionysus who is now officially my alpha as well as my beta.

Was it bad, she wondered, that she missed her iPod this much?

Three sets of bench presses down, two more to go. She was going for a personal record this time, and she could desperately use her old workout mix to inspire her. Sure, it was just from the days when she jogged a little around the castle, which was a far cry from her current regimen, but it always did get her going.

A bead of sweat appeared at her hairline, and she relished in the tickle. It made her feel accomplished. Every drop of sweat was hard-earned. One more to go.

“Hermione.”

She nearly dropped the bar. That voice—that darkly accented, baritone voice—had changed a bit over the years, but she still knew it. Forcing herself to push the bar up to the supports, she scrambled to put her body in a less vulnerable position. On her back with her legs spread over the bench didn’t exactly send the message she wanted to convey, that message being: _fuck off._ “Viktor.”

“You look wonderful.”

No, she didn’t. She was covered in sweat and wearing a ratty old T-shirt that used to belong to Harry. “Okay,” she said, standing to readjust the bar for military presses.

“Are you surprised to see me?”

“Not at all. Harry mentioned you reached out to him.” She began her first set, glad that this exercise didn’t require her to be on her back or bent over.

“It is good to see you.”

“Thank you.” She continued pushing out repetitions like he wasn’t even there.

Viktor Krum raised a dark eyebrow and the muscles in his face tensed in confusion. “You are happy to see me too, yes?”

Hermione pushed the bar over her head. “Sure. It’s always good to have the extra help.”

“Um…” The Bulgarian stuck his hands in his robe pockets. “I hope we can catch up.”

“Look,” Hermione set the bar on the supports. “You and I don’t know each other anymore, Viktor. We went to a ball together once a hundred years ago. A lot has changed since then.”

He appeared to be making a great effort to keep a straight expression. “Of course, Hermione.”

“If you’re going to be here, you’ve got to be ready to pull your weight.”

“Of course.”

“And if you’re here to flirt, look elsewhere. I’m with Harry.”

The tight smile on Viktor’s face threatened to melt away, but his will prevailed. Despite the fake smile, he was obviously disappointed. “I do not mean to cause offense. I simply wanted to say hello to you.”

“Hello.”

“Hello.” He smiled in an effort to establish some sort of awkward rapport.

Hermione picked up a towel and wiped the back of her neck with it. “Harry says he’s putting you in surgery with Fleur.”

“Yes. It will be very good to see her again. She was always a good friend.”

“She doesn’t suffer fools. She’ll work you to death.”

“That is fine.”

Hermione moved the supports to a lower notch, readying the bar for deadlifts. As she loaded the bar, Viktor seemed to begin to understand that their reunion was over and that she was no longer interested in talking. Not that she had ever been. “Well. I will leave you to it, Hermione. It was very good to see you again.”

Once she had seen the back of him, she released a heavy sigh. Maybe she didn’t do a very good job of pretending _not_ to be hostile, but Draco never said she had to be friendly. In fact, friendly would send the wrong message. Once the bar was loaded, she began her first set, no longer longing for her workout mix. It was truly amazing how the universe seemed to send inspiration to kick ass right when a person needed it.

 

*

 

She loved what exercise did to her brain. For someone who was known for having a particularly excellent one, she marveled that so many people who saw themselves as intelligent tended to cow away from the physical. She herself fell prey to the same trap in her youth. It was a misconception that the two realms of the self, the body and the mind, were completely separate entities. In her experience, the happier her body, the more she was able to focus her mind.

But today, she was off.

Viktor’s presence fucked with her brain. It wasn’t in the same way Draco’s presence did. She always felt fluttery and pleasantly disoriented after seeing Draco. Speaking with Viktor that morning made her feel…and there really was no better word for it… _icky_. She needed something, anything, to put her brain back on track.

Once back in the tent, her eyes drifted to the shadowy space under her cot. Crouching down on her hands and knees, she reached under the space until she found what she was looking for; a box. It was a box she never opened because usually, it made her feel wistful and unhappy.

The thought of opening this box didn’t make her feel anything today but fluttery and pleasantly disoriented.

Inside the box was a time capsule of sorts. Photos, a handful of portable family heirlooms, and a smaller box the size of a cigarette case. She opened this box within the box.

Her fingers trembled as she removed the deceptively innocuous-looking Galleon. She let it roll between her hands for a moment before holding her wand to it.

_You there?_

 

*

 

The last rays of the Parisian sun poured through the window, bouncing off the light hair of the lone Death Eater. Draco sat in a chair at La Luciole, a little wizard tavern in the Saint-Germain-des-Pres, nursing a Chartreuse and looking over a few notes the Dark Lord had given him regarding his meeting tomorrow with Minister Devereux. He didn’t really need to look over the notes to know that the Dark Lord’s demands disguised as requests were absurd. He’d say this for the Dark Lord. At least he _knew_ he sucked at diplomacy. This is why men like Draco and his father were useful. They knew how to use nice words and when all else failed, when to keep their mouths shut.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. The Chartreuse wasn’t quite strong enough. Maybe he’d order an absinthe instead.

Suddenly, an impossible warmth flooded his trouser pocket.

At first, he didn’t believe it. Perhaps the Chartreuse really was working after all. But, realizing he had nothing to lose by double checking, he stuck his hand in his pocket. The coin was warm. Very warm.

He hadn’t really meant to bring it. Usually, it stayed hidden in his desk drawer. But ever since his last conversation with Hermione when he brought up the coins, a small, hopeful part of his brain wondered if maybe he should start keeping a closer eye on it. It was a part of his brain he intended to ignore when he packed for his trip. But his gaze kept drifting over to his desk and in the end, he said ‘fuck it’ and threw it in his pocket anyway.

His fingers closed around the warmth—this glowing, center-of-the-universe warmth—like it was a life source. His heart was sweating. Slowly, he pulled the coin out of his pocket and examined the message.

_You there?_

His face lit up for the first time in seven years.

_I’m here._

 

*

 

I’m here.

_He doubted anyone had used this classroom for years. There weren’t that many classes at Hogwarts compared to the astounding number of abandoned classrooms that seemed to multiply. Hermione once suggested that they bred somehow, which inspired a rather hilarious diatribe in which they pondered precisely how such a thing would occur. While he waited for her to show, he looked around the room with a tinge of regret._

_It wasn’t the most romantic setting. None of their selected spots ever were, which never seemed to bother Hermione. But today, it bothered Draco. A dusty old ruin might be fine for some people, but Hermione Granger was special. She deserved more. Ever since their first night back since the summer holidays, when he made her come on his fingers in a classroom much like this one, his feelings for her had only grown. They had given each other something special that night, and he wanted every night to be just as special._

_His pocket warmed, and he removed the coin to read her message._ I’m on my way.

_Deciding that he’d better put the little time, he had until she arrived, to good use, he_ Scourgify _’d the dust from most of the surfaces and tidied up a bit. He transformed one of the desks into a couch for them and diffused the musty smell from the air._

_What else?_

_Pointing his wand at a few dust bunnies that had gathered in the corner to escape his Scourgify, he uttered a spell, “_ Stellasis _.” The dust bunnies transformed into a small multitude of fireflies and flew around the room to illuminate it. Draco grinned at the effect._

_A small, delicate knock echoed on the other side of the door._

_He ran his hands through his hair a few times and cried out, “Come in.”_

_As she opened the door, her eyes widened at Draco’s modest improvements to the room. It wasn’t much, but it made quite the difference. “Draco, it’s beautiful,” she said, her happy gaze following a firefly as it danced through the air._

_“Come here.” He patted the spot next to him on the couch._

_S_ _he smiled as she complied with his request, sinking into the seat next to him as close as possible. Her heart did somersaults as he threw an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer. “I’m sorry I was late,” she said._

_With a smile, he leaned in to kiss her. “That’s alright,” he said against her lips. Her body moved of its own accord into his lap, straddling him and rendering him powerless to stop the embarrassing groan that left his throat. His lips traveled from her mouth to her neck while his hands grasped her back, pulling her into him. The romantic Draco who conjured fireflies for the girl he loved rolled his eyes at the randy Draco who couldn’t seem to not maul her the second she materialized in front of him. But the moment his hands filled with this witch—this squirming, lovely, warm witch—romantic Draco took a backseat. It was, alas, the curse of the sixteen-year-old boy that lusty imperatives tended to cloud every corner of their otherwise good intentions._

_“Does it bother you that this is all we do?” Draco asked against her neck._

_“What?” From the way she panted the word, it was entirely possible she hadn’t even heard the question, her mind completely occupied with far more enjoyable things than talking._

_He backed away to look at her. Her eyes fluttered down at him from her perch, wiggling on his lap against his boner, and biting her lip in that way that never failed to make him momentarily forget his own name. “Never mind.” He attacked her mouth again, grabbing a handful of breast as she rolled her hips against him._

_“Draco,” she whispered against his lips, “I think I’m ready for more.”_

_“Huh?” He jumped back, his attention one thousand percent at her feet. Had he heard her correctly?_

_Her front teeth trapped her bottom lip behind a smile at his obvious eagerness. She leaned in to whisper in his ear, clearly a bit shy at stating her desires so directly. “Can I have you in my mouth?”_

_Draco was not religious, but he prayed to whomever was possibly listening Up There that she was referring to fellatio and that by “you” she did not mean any other, less needy, part of his body. His cock jumped in his trousers at the very thought. “You mean…?”_

_“Can I?”_

_“Uh...yeah._ Fuck _yeah. Any time. Absolutely any time you want to do that, you go right on ahemmm."_

_He was cut off by her lips on his. He sighed into her mouth and vaguely registered that her hand was fumbling with his belt. He just hoped he didn’t shoot off in his trousers before he actually made it into her mouth. When her hand closed around his cock, he started to lose faith. “Oh-ho-ho. God.”_

_She paused._

_“No, no, no, no. Keep going. Please.”_

_“Are you sure.”_

_His head fell back on the couch. “Hermione, I’m dying here.”_

_“Okay. I won’t stop.” She pulled his trousers down to the middle of his thighs and lowered her face near his crotch._

_“Hmmm...Mmmmmm!!!” Easy there, tiger._

_S_ _he paused again. “Are you sure you’re alright?”_

_He was absolutely not alright. He was so wound up, it felt like his cock had a heartbeat that was dangerously close to cardiac arrest. “Hermione,” he all but moaned, “if I last until the end of this sentence, it’ll be a miracle.”_

_She giggled as she closed her mouth on him._

_Draco made a sound that he had never made before; a sound that could only be compared to the death rattle of a wildebeest. It felt so good, it almost hurt. Never in Draco’s wildest dreams could he ever have imagined anything could feel like this. The pressure teased between soft and hard. The wetness of her tongue seemed all-consuming. And he was fairly certain his cock had never been inside anything this warm. He wanted to die, but also to sing Hallelujah because there_ had _to be a God._

_Fifteen seconds later, he ejaculated in her mouth. Vaguely, he registered that her throat contracted, indicating that she had swallowed his semen. He wished he could have appreciated it more in the moment, but it’s kind of hard to focus on details when your entire universe is exploding behind your eyes._

_The last thing he remembered was thinking how grateful he was that he had been born._

_Seconds, or perhaps centuries, later, he registered her grinning, beautiful face pressed against his thigh. “You’re awake.”_

_“Huh?” He rubbed his eyes._

_“You passed out.”_

_He scoffed. “I did not.”_

_“You did.” Really, her smirk was incorrigible. “I suppose that’s why they call it ‘the little death.’”_

_He rolled his eyes as her smirk exploded into full-on laughter. “How dare you?”_

_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said through her laughter. “But you weren’t kidding when you said you were dying.”_

_His eyes flattened into slits at her audacity. “For future reference, you don’t get to laugh at me after I come. It’s emasculating.”_

_“I’m sorry,” she said with a pout so adorable, he was inclined to instantly forgive her. She leaned up to kiss him. “Do you forgive me?”_

_“After what you just did, I don’t think I’m in a position not to.” He returned her kiss with one of his own. “Should I be worried about just how comfortable you seemed to be down there?”_

_“_ _I read about how to do it in a book.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Was it alright?”_

_He chuckled. Only Hermione Granger would learn to give a blow job from a book. “It was a damn sight more than ‘alright.’” He didn’t know a word that described precisely how excellent it had been, so he kissed her deeply, hoping to convey the depths of his gratitude in a nonverbal fashion. “I would try to return the favor, but I don’t think I’ve fully regained consciousness.”_

_She giggled. “And deprive you of an opportunity to read about oral pleasure?”_

_“I’ve always been a more hands-on learner,” he said, pulling her body against his and laying them down on the couch. “Hush now. Nap time.”_

 

*

 

_Time for sleep, I think._

Draco looked at the clock on the wall of the cafe, and begrudgingly supposed She was right. They had been talking for hours. She was upset because Krum arrived at their camp today and it put Her out of sorts. He understood. She wasn’t used to deceit, and it would take some time for Her to ease into it. It wasn’t a word one usually associated with ‘Hermione Granger.’ So, he gladly let Her rant about it.

_Thank you, Draco. I feel much better._

He smiled as he charmed a response. _I’m glad._

After _Apparating_ to his hotel, he landed in the lobby. The clerk behind the desk smiled as he approached. She was pretty in a stereotypically French way; with understated, yet well-fitting clothes, an unfussy hairstyle, and minimal makeup. “Good evening, Mr. Malfoy. What can I do for you?” Perfectly clipped, charmingly paced English.

“I need a wakeup call for tomorrow morning. And I’ll need breakfast.”

“Of course. And...will you be needing anything else this evening, Mr. Malfoy?” Her smile, like her question, was subtle, yet suggestive; much like everything else about her.

Honestly, had he not been riding the coattails of a Hermione high, he would have considered it. Her bright brown eyes and unassuming grace would have attracted him any other day. It might have even been good for him to sleep with a woman he actually liked, particularly since he couldn’t have the one he loved.

His pocket warmed again. As he gingerly fished the coin out, he knew without even looking at the message that it would give him more pleasure than an entire night spent with the pretty French girl.

_Sweet dreams, Draco._

He smiled down at the coin. “No, thank you,” he said, looking up at the clerk. “I’ve got everything I need.”

 

*

 

Hermione grinned at the coin in her hand, stifling all thoughts that unearthing it from under her bed was a monumentally stupid idea. She didn’t care. Talking to Draco made her feel light and girlish; two things she hadn’t felt in a long time. It occurred to her that using Him like this was unfair, both to Him and her boyfriend. But she was allowed to have friends, wasn’t she? There was nothing sinister or untoward in having a friend, a sexy friend, who smelled like a crisp breeze through a tobacco field and made her feel hot under her clothes.

The tent flap moved, signaling Harry’s return. “Hi.” He looked frustrated.

“Hi,” she said, tucking the coin inside the copy of _The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ that Draco had lent her. When she mentioned to Him that evening that she was reading it, He had teased her and said that she was the only person He knew who didn’t find that book to be “an unbearable snoreathon.”

Harry plopped onto the cot next to her.

“Rough day?”

The cot muffled his voice. “Did you happen to notice that we have a new guest?”

“I noticed. He tried to talk to me earlier in the gym tent.”

Harry looked up. “What did he say?”

“Nothing much. Just that he wanted to get reacquainted. I was pretty short with him. Hopefully, he’ll get the message.”

“Yeah.” Harry rubbed his face. “I showed him around. Introduced him to everyone at the camp. Showed him where he’d be working with Fleur. By the way, if he makes it a week without her poisoning his tea, he’ll be lucky.”

“I don’t blame her.”

“Can’t say I do, either.” He put an arm around Hermione, stretching as he moved. “How was your day?”

Her eyes drifted over to the gap in her book. “It was great. I read.”

Harry chuckled against her shoulder. “I’m glad.” His fingers trailed up and down her arm in feather-light strokes. “You’ve been so stressed out lately. It’s good for you to have some time to yourself.”

Her muscles, tired from her earlier workout, seized underneath her flesh. Her blood hissed with guilt. She racked her brain for a response, but nothing seemed adequate. The last thing she wanted to do was concur with her boyfriend’s grandiose interpretation of her worth.

His strokes slowed on her arm. He spoke in a sleepy, heavy voice. “I love you.”

Merlin, she hated herself. “Goodnight, Harry.”


	14. Somewhat Less than Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SaintDionysus is my lovely alpha/beta.
> 
> Anyone who has extra time on their hands and patience to listen to two drunk chicks discussing literature, you should check out our YouTube show: The Drunk Book Club. Our first episode just recently launched and the second is soon to follow! You can find out that we are (gasp) real human beings with voices and faces and stuff. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCT978AvPHIEsRASWGsz_kCw
> 
> Enjoy the chapter! I loved writing this one because Fleur is my queen.

“No!” She slapped his hand. “You are using too much willow extract.”

“Is that bad?” Krum asked, covertly rubbing his hand where the Frenchwoman’s nails grazed him.

“Of course not. Plenty of people who come to me asking for something to make their fever go down would much rather shit themselves to death.” She rolled her eyes and started to chop a small bouquet of snowdrops, not minding a bit that she had greatly exaggerated the potential side effects.

“Is that for headaches?”

Her knife slowed. “Yes.”

“My mother used to brew a wonderful potion from snowdrops to cure headaches.”

Fleur continued in her steady chopping. She wondered if his mother had anything to get rid of the burly, six-foot pain in her ass standing to her left.

“I remember how she brewed it. I could help, if you wish.”

One final, loud chop. “That will not be necessary. I have my own recipe, which I believe has a bit more finesse than the type Bulgarian mountain people make.” Perhaps the mild racism was a bit low, but she needed to indulge in _something_ to keep herself from sinking her knife into his chest. “You will be helping me today with a very important task.”

“Wonderful.” His face lit up, and Fleur relished in how much harder this brief bout of happiness would make his fall.

“You will be giving Mundungus a prostate exam.”

As predicted, his face fell at an almost comic speed. “I do not know how to do this.”

“You have never stuck your finger up a man’s arse before?”

“ _No_ , I have not.”

She chuckled. “Just remember to be gentle.”

Viktor gaped at her. “Surely you are not serious, Fleur.”

“Your English is very good, Viktor. Much better than I remember. But I must say, your memory is shit if you think I am not serious. Am I a funny person, Viktor?”

“Well, you—”

“The correct answer is _no_ , Viktor. I am not funny. I am a serious fucking person, and I would appreciate it if you would give Mundungus a fucking prostate exam. You are here to help me, no?”

“I am here to help in any way I can, Fleur.”

“Then stick your bloody finger up Mundungus Fletcher’s arse and tell him to fucking cough. Do you think you can fucking do that?”

Viktor regarded her with something of wonder. “You are very different than I remember Fleur.”

“Everything is different, Viktor. You should know that by now.”

 

*

 

“Mummy!” Victoire ran towards her mother with Teddy Lupin on her heels. “Mummy! Are you going to see Sunny?”

“Yes, I am, and before you ask, you can’t go.”

Her lovely face fell. “Aw, come on! You never let me go.”

“It is not safe for children to leave the camp.” She kissed her daughter on the forehead. “But do not worry. I’m sure that Sunny will send the two of you a pondful of sweets.”

“You never let me leave the camp.” Victoire’s award-winning pout would have brought any other adult to their knees. But Fleur was immune.

She squatted down to look her daughter in the eyes on her level. “Hey. Look at me. It sounds to me like you are complaining. Is that what you are doing?”

“No, mummy.”

“Good, because we do not do that. We are very lucky.”

“I know.”

She kissed her daughter one last time on the cheek and ruffled Teddy’s hair. As she left the camp, she pushed down a little bubble of guilt. It was evident that Victoire was restless, but one day, she would understand.

Victoire was born at a time when Fleur was still hopeful; still optimistic that one day there would be victory on the horizon for all.

Since then, Fleur had become a realist. Even if they came out the other side of this war alive, there would certainly not be victory for all. Was there victory for Ron? For Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks? For Bill?

Victoire may well be Fleur’s one victory, her one joy. She’d be damned if she didn’t protect that with her very soul.

 

*

 

“Fleur?” Sunny smiled at her, his namesake painfully suitable. “You’re back already?”

 _I needed to get away._ “I forgot these things,” she said, handing him a list. “We are running low.” _I couldn’t be there anymore._ “We can’t afford to run low on things when we have a new guest.”

He smiled sadly. “I heard. I’m sorry about that.”

“It is not your fault. It was that idiot Malfoy’s idea, if I understand correctly.”

“Is that what Harry told you? Malfoy’s alright. Cut him some slack.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.” A moment of tense silence passed between them. “So, can you help me with this list?”

His smile was utterly refreshing. “I believe I can. Would you like something? Some coffee? Cake?”

“I am fine, thank you.”

“A glass of wine?”

Okay, now _that_ was sorely tempting. She couldn’t remember the last time she had wine; something that, like any good Frenchwoman, had been one of her favorite things before the war. “I shouldn’t.”

“When was the last time you took a moment for yourself?”

“I…I do not know what you mean.”

“I believe you do. You deserve this. You deserve…well, a lot of things, but right now, just indulge me this. Sit down, relax, and have a glass of wine with me.”

She tried not to smile. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“Are you French or aren’t you?”

She laughed. The sound bounced off Sunny’s heart and landed somewhere in between them. “You are a bastard.”

“Does that mean yes?”

A sound of mild protest escaped the roof of her mouth, but something kept Fleur from putting up more of a fight. Perhaps it was the fact that she was out of viable excuses. “If you get me drunk, I will bring hell down on your arse.”

With twinkling, kind eyes, he said, “I look forward to it.”

 

*

 

Two glasses of wine later, Fleur was not drunk, but she was feeling lighter than she had in a long time. “What do you mean, I am uptight? I am _not_ uptight. Hermione Granger is uptight. I am just blunt.”

“Wicked Witch is alright.”

“Is that what you call her? What do you call me?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.” He laughed, and it sounded so bright and deep, Fleur couldn’t help but laugh too. “What were you like before all this happened?”

“Do you mean before this country…what is that stupid thing you English say…went to hell in a bin?”

“Hell in a handbasket, and you’re adorable.”

“I will not answer your question if you continue to make fun of me.”

Sunny sat up straighter and laced his hands together under his chin, his posture indicating that she had his full attention. She took another sip of her wine. It tasted wonderful to her, even though she was aware that a long time ago, she probably would have sneered at it, despite its French origin. She used to insist that Chablis was trash, although she couldn’t have articulated why. “I was a raging snob.”

He laughed at her. “I doubt that.”

“It is true. The first time I came to this country, I was seventeen, and I was horrible. I could not even open my mouth without criticizing England and comparing it to France. You would not have liked me.”

“Probably not. I love England.”

“You are not from here, either?”

“No, I am. I was born here, but my parents are from Calcutta.”

She took another sip of her cold, refreshing wine to hide her embarrassment over her ignorance. “I am ashamed to admit that I do not know where that is.”

His smile was kind, forgiving, and unsurprised. “It’s in India. Don’t worry. White people are terrible at geography.”

She laughed. “I always wondered what kind of a name was Sunny.”

“A nickname. My real name is Sutosh.”

“Sutosh,” Fleur repeated slowly. “It’s lovely. What does it mean?”

He smiled. “It means, ‘One Who Becomes Happy Easily.’”

Another laugh from Fleur. “It does _not_.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Well, it fits you perfectly. Why wouldn’t you just use your real name?”

He shrugged. “I prefer to only say my name once when introducing myself. In addition to being pants at geography, white people aren’t very good with funny names.”

It seemed that Fleur could not stop laughing. She suddenly became aware of this fact. “I should probably not have any more wine.”

“Well, your French accent is _a lot_ stronger than it was when that glass was full.”

She laughed. “It is not.” _Eet eez not._

His bright Sunny smile warmed her already hot cheeks. “Would you like some water?”

“I suppose I should. I still have to feed my child later. I should probably be sober for that.”

In addition to a glass of water, Fleur allowed herself to be talked into a slice of carrot cake and a cup of espresso. “You are spoiling me.”

He laughed under his breath as he cut her a slice of cake. “Oh, Fleur. I could only be so lucky to spoil a woman like you.”

She laughed at this despite the edge on his voice, indicating that he was absolutely serious. “My daughter will be jealous of me.”

“Which reminds me, I don’t have any of those lavender biscuits she likes, but I made a fresh batch of chocolate chip this morning. Do you think she’ll mind?”

Fleur rolled her eyes. “She will eat the entire tin and then run around the camp for days. So, allow me to thank you ahead of time.” She took a bite of her carrot cake, and an inadvertent little moan escaped her throat. “This is supposed to be the worst type of cake. Why is this _so_ good?”

“Carrot cake is underappreciated,” Sunny said, taking a bite of his own slice. “I add a bit of curry powder and mango juice to give it a kick, and instead of cream cheese frosting, I made a coconut lime buttercream.”

“It’s lovely,” she said, taking another bite.

“Carrot cake doesn’t get the credit it deserves. It’s warm, nostalgic, and complex. By all rights, it should be the cake everyone reaches for, but people are turned off by the fact that it has vegetables in it. Personally, I’d rather have spice than sweetness any day.” He took a bite of his cake, oblivious to Fleur’s stare.

“You are a very strange man.”

“Maybe. But you like me a little, don’t you?”

Hiding a smile behind an eye roll, she took another bite of her cake. “I like your cake.”

“You know what?” He leaned in to whisper. “My cake likes you too. A lot.”

She smiled all the way home.

 

*

 

Harry frowned as Emmeline Vance sputtered wrathfully at him regarding the proximity of Krum’s tent to hers. She, much like the rest of the camp, had no desire to share the _Earth_ with him, much less sleep next to him.

“Look, I understand. I really do.”

“Then what are you going to do about it?”

He ran his hands through his hair. “What can I do, Emmeline? He has to sleep somewhere.”

He wasn’t entirely certain how he had escaped the remainder of the conversation. It was possible that he simply floated away, leaving the older woman with her jaw clenched in mid-rant. Frankly, he wasn’t too concerned about it.

His entire day had been exhausting, like a never-ending fever dream. Everyone had concerns about Krum. Everyone brought those concerns to Harry, and they did not do so tactfully. As it was out of the question for them to direct their frustrations to the actual target of their ire, Harry was tagged It.

“Hermione?”

No answer. She must have been training.

He threw his arms behind his back and relished the little pops his shoulders made, verbally announcing his tension. One thing that could be said for stressful days is that they tended to reap the most luxurious nights of sleep; something that Harry was very much looking forward to. As he made his way to the cot, his half-asleep limbs swayed, knocking over Hermione’s copy of _The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire._

In an instant, he was awake. A mild, sharp throb from the edge of the book, coupled with the worry that Hermione would now lose her place shot through his body. “Shit!” He caught the Galleon that had been marking her spot, smashing his hand down as it tried to roll away. Just as a mild bead of self-satisfaction trickled down his spine, a sudden and uncomfortable warmth beat against his palm.

“What the…?” He examined the Galleon.

_Just met Monsieur Devereux. I’ve never met a Frenchman with less of a sense of humour. And that’s saying something._

Harry blinked at the message as he read it two more times, trying to decipher what the words meant. Who was “Monsieur Devereux”? Who was this person who just met him? And furthermore, why should Hermione care?

He scoffed in disbelief before the harsh reality settled in and the answers to questions he hadn’t even asked came flooding in upon him.

Malfoy wrote this. It had to be Malfoy. Who else did they know who had the freedom to travel internationally? Who else possessed the cutting, sarcastic sense of humor this message represented? The fact that it was Malfoy didn’t bother Harry so much as the inference he couldn’t help but make in response.

Malfoy wrote this...presumably in response to something Hermione had written to him. Another scoff left him like a breath, and suddenly, he was unable to keep from absorbing the next flood of inferences this bit of knowledge bestowed upon him.

Hermione had a secret coin she used to talk to Malfoy, and Harry wasn’t supposed to know about it. How long had she had this? The congenial tone of the message suggested that this wasn’t the first message Draco had sent her. Which, of course, meant that Hermione had likely sent more than one message to him in turn. None of this was welcome news, even if the messages had been strictly professional in tone. But the message carried with it a casual flirtation that Harry could only assume was common between them.

He laughed in disbelief as he squeezed the coin in his hand. “Un-fucking-believable.” He wasn’t even certain he was angry. It was too ridiculous.

The whole day had felt so surreal, like his mind wasn’t present for the ugliness his body witnessed. Which is why his wand seemed to point of its own accord at the Galleon as a spell unwittingly fell from his lips. Suddenly, the past day’s history of the coin was spread open for him to read, and his previous exhaustion melted away.

For the first time in years, Harry stayed up all night reading.

 

*

 

Fleur had just tucked Victoire into bed, dodging a dozen questions about why she couldn’t go to Maldon with her next time, how did Sunny make such delicious things and by the way, could she please have another chocolate chip biscuit and _truly_ , Mummy, you look _so_ pretty today.

It wasn’t just flattery, Fleur knew. Sometimes Victoire seemed a little in awe of the veela deep within her mother. It amused Fleur because it’s something she tried to hide most of the time.

Fleur didn’t need people to tell her she was pretty. She _knew_ she was pretty. Looking back, she wasn’t completely certain Bill ever even told her she was beautiful. Not once.\

It’s one of the things she always loved about him. He never spoke the obvious. He preferred to let silence and actions speak for themselves.

Fleur had never needed a man to make her feel beautiful. She didn’t want to be adored.

She wanted to be respected.

Bill had respected her. His self-absorption with his work was what first attracted her to him. When all the other men at Gringotts fell over themselves to get her attention, Bill would hardly even look at her.

_“Mr. Weasley?” The subtle purr in her voice and several extra minutes she had taken on her hair prior to coming here would have caused any other man to leap out of his seat. Bill Weasley just sat there, not even looking up from his paperwork._

_“Delacour? You have something for me?” There was no humor or suggestive slant in the way he said it._

_“I merely wanted to bring you up to date on the Travers vault.” She kept touching her hair, as though that simple act could divert his attention to her where it belonged. “We are working very hard to determine the nature of the dark magic on many of the objects. But there are a few we cannot…um…” Her English wasn’t as good back then. “…um…we do not know what is wrong.”_

_He sighed. “What’s giving you trouble?”_

_“Well, there is a locket which puts a person to sleep just by being in its presence. You see how this is difficult?”_ Look at me _, she thought._ I am much more interesting than whatever is on that paper.

 _“_ _No. Not really. You can cast a Shield on yourself, can’t you?”_

_“We…we could. But, the locket works very quickly.”_

_Finally, he looked up at her. “Something you’ll learn in this job is that flashy magic like that tends to be the easiest to break.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“It’s mostly showmanship. The spells that seem the most impressive might not be easy to perform, but they’re easy to break. It’s the magic you_ can’t _see under the surface, the details …that’s usually the most dangerous, complicated type of magic. It’s sturdier. That’s what you should watch out for.”_

_Fleur blinked. Suddenly, she understood exactly why Bill Weasley had no interest in her silky blonde hair, fine bone structure, and bright eyes. He thought she was just a bit of flashy magic._

_And she knew she had to prove him wrong._

After that day, Fleur and Bill truly noticed one another. And because she now knew what kind of man he was, Fleur stopped trying to get his attention. As a result, Bill started to look at her. And he never stopped.

After Bill, all other men seemed like children. He had been the only true, grown-up man she had ever known.

Well…she wasn’t sure she could say that now.

Sunny was a real man. Like her late husband, he too seemed to respect her. Granted, he was so different from Bill in many ways. He was shorter, smaller in frame, physically different in almost every way. He wore his heart on his sleeve. He laughed with abandon. And she laughed with him.

What would her mother say if she had seen the way Fleur had giggled today? Where would she even start? Would it piss her off more, she wondered, that Sunny was a Muggle, or that Fleur wore her emotions so brightly?

The thought of disappointing her mother made her smile even more.

There were similarities too between Bill and Sunny; these two grown-up men who were oblivious to Fleur’s veela charms and actually seemed interested in her as a person. They were both unfailingly kind. They both walked the world free of fear. They carried with them a disarming honesty and sense of honor. It had been Bill’s downfall. She hoped it wouldn’t be Sunny’s.

Neither one of them made her feel pretty. She liked that.

Her reverie was interrupted by the disturbance of her tent flap. A wild-eyed, possibly drunk Harry came stumbling in.

“Harry? What are you doing? Do you know what time it is?”

“Late, I guess.” No slurring. He wasn’t drunk, then. Just…something else.

“ _Muffliato_.” She wasn’t sure what had Harry in such a state, but he seemed pissed, and she wasn’t going to chance Victoire waking up and asking more questions. “What is wrong with you?”

“I…” He laughed darkly. “Hermione’s having an emotional affair with Malfoy.”

Fleur blinked. “And…we are _surprised_ at this news?”

“ _Yes_ , Fleur! We’re _very_ surprised at this news because I _explicitly_ told Hermione not to keep me in the dark about this sort of thing. She was supposed to be honest.”

“Okay.” Fleur narrowed her eyes as she computed this information. “And that is…normal? For women to just _tell_ their boyfriends about their other lovers.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. A sick expression crawled across Harry’s face. “Don’t call him her _lover_. He’s not that yet. At least…I don’t think he is.”

“So, what is the problem?”

A deceptively light laugh left him. “The _problem_ , Fleur, is that she tells him things she can’t tell me. Her anxieties, her fears. You should have fucking seen those messages.”

“You went through her messages?”

“What choice did I have?”

It wasn’t the right time to give him a dressing down. Right now, Hermione was the one at fault. Harry violating her privacy was a different sin for a different time. “I am sorry, Harry.” She had absolutely no idea what else to say.

“Yeah. Me too.”

She put a hand on his shoulder because that was what people did. His body shook underneath her palm, hinting at the broken heart raging beneath.

“It’s supposed to be me. She’s supposed to come to me. I can help her. I know her. I love…” He broke off.

“You should talk to her.”

He squinted his eyes closed. “I can’t do that right now, Fleur, because if I do, I’m pretty sure I’m going to break up with her.” His hand covered hers on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”

“It is alright. You are my friend, and I am here to listen to you.”

“Thank you.” His hand squeezed hers. “You’re always there for me Fleur.” He leaned forward to hug her.

Fleur was not usually one for too much physical contact, but she understood people well enough to know when it was time to get over one’s self and give them a hug. This was that time. “It will be alright.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You are wrong. I know you will be alright even if you and Hermione cannot work this out.”

He nuzzled his head into her shoulder. “Thank you, Fleur.” He moved his head to kiss her cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.” His lips found hers.

Fleur backed away instinctively as if on fire. “What are you doing?”

“I…” He looked punch-drunk, like he had suddenly just woken up from a nap. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“Do you think you can just do whatever you want?”

“Of course not.” His voice was hoarse; almost begging.

“You are supposed to be my friend. That does not mean you can use me whenever and however you feel like.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you fucking were, so do not even try to say otherwise.” She took a deep breath. “Look, I am sorry about Hermione. But I think you should go.”

“Fleur—”

“Please. I will not ask you again. We talk about this in the morning, but right now I need you to leave.”

He stood up gingerly. “I’m so sorry, Fleur.” Then he left.

Fleur massaged her temple, tempering the headache that was threatening to bloom. Today had been the perfect day until two minutes ago.

A little boy. That is what she had called Harry once, long ago when she first met him. She remembered being so angry that the old fool Dumbledore would allow an underage student to compete in the Triwizard Tournament just because he was his favorite. She had been even more livid that he had won.

Fleur had been underestimated her entire life. It had baffled her for the longest time, why this was. Eventually, she learned that it was some unholy combination of her sex, youth, and beauty. These reasons infuriated her even more than the underestimation itself. Never mind that she had proven herself time and again to be better with a wand than most people; braver than most people; more capable and industrious than most people.

Maybe she should just get fat. That would teach them.

She had believed there to be an understanding between Harry and herself. They were comrades, occasional friends. They worked well together because they respected one another. Apparently, she was wrong. Harry didn’t respect her, at least not the way she thought he had. Underneath, she was just a veela to him, a fuck girl, and he was just another guy with a dick for a brain.

Through her fury, she knew this wasn’t the case. Harry was only human. He was upset, vulnerable, and needed a sympathetic ear. He came to her looking for a shoulder to cry on, not a body to forget in. In his moment of weakness, she might have been anyone. Deep down, she knew this.

But right now, Fleur was pissed off.

If he could be a human, so could she. “Fuck you, Harry Potter.” She flipped off the air in the direction of the little boy’s tent and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the Dramione-shaped hole in this chapter, for those of you who are particularly intent upon that aspect of this fic (I'm guessing most of you), you'll certainly see more of Draco and Hermione next chapter. In the meantime, treat yourself to just enjoying the magic of secondary characters. For those of you who have read Hot for Teacher, and An Indefinite Amount of Forever, you'll know that I LOVES me some secondary characters (think Albus).


	15. Sysiphus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter is:  
> -Welshly Arms "Bizarre Love Triangle" (Cover of New Order)  
> -Puscifer "The Humbling River"  
> -Agnes Obel "Fivefold"
> 
> I put together a playist on Spotify for this fic if anyone's interested in checking it out! It's in progress. I'm adding to it as I write. Of everything I listen to when writing this fic, these are the songs I think best encapsulate the story.
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/67nv9txpmgxt4k3kri0astmlh/playlist/1EowGLMgIOH4KK5gmv9W90
> 
> As always, much thanks to my friend and alpha/beta, SaintDionysus!

Draco slept very little the night before his meeting with Minister Devereux, but for once, it wasn’t because he drank too much. His mind felt lighter from the day’s correspondence with Hermione. He couldn’t remember the last time they had a talk like that: one of those marathon, vein-splitting, soul-bearing talks, every detail of which becomes imprinted in the fabric of your being. Talks like those were the reason he fell in love with her as a wistful 15-year-old on prefect rounds; talks that sculpted his finely-tuned infatuation into something deeper; talks that planted roots which sprouted into sturdy forests that would no doubt continue to thrive long after everything else around them had fallen. He had smiled at the ceiling and sighed no less than fourteen times.

This morning, his eyes should have been burning in protest from the early hour he awoke. But Draco felt refreshed. He felt younger. He felt fit and healthy and _of course_ Minister Devereux would eat up everything he said, because Draco was no doubt a natural diplomat.

He smiled at his reflection as he brushed his teeth. Today would be a good day.

 

*

 

A haughty French throat cleared at him. “Pardon, Monsieur. The Minister will see you now.” No hint of a smile on the eerily symmetrical, almost meanly beautiful face of the Minister’s secretary.

Draco said not a word in response but followed the icy young woman down a finely-decorated chamber to the Minister’s office. There were no burly, half-wit guards in front of Devereux’s door, but Draco could feel a current of harsh magic hit him the moment he crossed the threshold.

“Mr. Malfoy. Do have a seat.” The Minister was a darkly-handsome fifty-something man with salt-and-pepper hair, a large, Gallic nose, and eyes which might appear kind under different circumstances. His deceptively polite words were spoken with a sharp little bite, as though he were _ordering_ Draco to have a seat rather than welcoming him to do so. Draco had no doubt that the man was exceedingly well-prepared for their meeting.

“Minister Devereux, how good of you to meet with me.” He shook his hand before sitting in the expensive leather armchair in front of the Minister’s desk. “I realize that you are a very busy man, and I do not wish to take up more of your time than necessary, so if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to cut straight to the punch.”

Minister Devereux’s face betrayed nothing. “You English with your clever little phrases. Yes, Mr. Malfoy. If it pleases you, by all means ‘cut straight to your punch.’” Spoken by anyone else in any other voice, the words would have been teasing, lightening. As it was, Draco felt almost chastised by them, as though the older man saw him as a little boy pretending to have a big boy job; not even worth making fun of.

“I am here as an emissary for Minister Riddle—”

“You are here as an emissary for England’s so-called ‘Dark Lord,’ the man who calls himself ‘Voldemort.’ Please, let us not pretend your people refer to him as ‘Minister Riddle.’”

Draco resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. “If you insist, Minister Devereux. It makes no matter to me what we call him.” He cleared his throat. “The Dark Lord would like me to appeal to your sense of international community and tell you that England and France have no future if they are not united in a common vision.”

“A position I do not share.”

This did not surprise Draco in the slightest, which made him feel slightly more confident. When conversing with men like this, it was a game where each player scored triple points if they could manage to do or say something unpredictable; something neither man had, thus far, achieved. “Of course not, Minister Devereux.” He tapped his finger on the armrest, counting the appropriate number of beats before he delivered his next line. “And I certainly have no intention of trying to convince you otherwise.

Minister Devereux raised a dark eyebrow. Triple points for Draco, then. “Are you here as an emissary from your master, Mr. Malfoy, or as something else?”

“Minister Riddle is my employer, Minister. Not my master.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“I am here to witness for myself the political landscape in your lovely country, Minister. It has been some time since I have witnessed such a democratic spirit in my own country.”

Minister Devereux relaxed his shoulders, leaning back in his chair and fixing Draco with a gaze as though he had never quite come upon an animal like this before. “Oh? And what is your opinion on the ‘democratic spirit’ of the French people, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I am a lowly diplomat, Minister. I am not afforded the luxury of an opinion.” “Ah, but you are not a diplomat here. It is your position that you are merely a tourist. You are here, as you said, to watch. Surely you do not watch passively.”

Draco grinned. “Well, you have me there, Minister.” He allowed a congenial moment of false concession pass between them before drawing a deep breath and saying: “I find it _most_ refreshing.”

Whatever word the Minister expected Draco to say, it was most certainly not this. “Refreshing?”

Draco nodded. “ _Most_ refreshing.”

The two men examined one another a moment. Minister Devereux chuckled humorlessly, breaking the spell. “What do you want, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I want what the French people have.”

“And what is that?”

_He’s really going to make me say it?_ “I want Great Britain to be free again. I want the Statute of Secrecy re-established. I want the Dark Lord and his ideologues out of power.”

Minister Devereux released a deep breath. “And in this perfect dream of yours, what role does France have?”

“For now? You do exactly what I’ve been doing for seven years, Minister.” He folded his hands together. “You wait.”

 

*

 

Back at the hotel, he checked his coin again as he walked through the lobby. No new message from Hermione, but She certainly had better things to do than sit around waiting for him to message Her. Nevertheless…

“Any messages for me?”

The pretty clerk was there again. He had interrupted her reading a message of her own; a red seal, recently dried, each half plastered on either end of the note. “Pardon me, Monsieur. I did not see you there.” Her neck was flushed. She was too obvious.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No messages, Monsieur Malfoy.”

“Thank you, Miss…I’m sorry. What was your name again?”

“Camille.” The girl could have taught a master class on blushing prettily.

Draco smiled his most dashing smile. “Camille.” He reached across the desk and took her hand in his. “Camille. I want you to do something for me.”

“Oui, Monsieur?” The corner of her lips turned up, coyly, like it had never occurred to her a man would ever ask little ol’ her for anything.

He licked his lips. “Tell me. How much is my father paying you?” Her face fell, and Draco revelled in the catharsis of watching something so lovely turn on him. “I’m sure I could match it.”

“Monsieur Malfoy,” she took her hand back. “I do not know what you are talking about, but I—”

“Spare me your lies. I’m better at it than you, sweetheart. I promise you that.” He’d recognize that seal anywhere. Foolish girl to read it so openly. No wonder she was so startled. “Oh, god, please tell me part of the bargain wasn’t that you would try to seduce me?” _Oh, Father. That’s so terribly eight years ago._

She squeaked an indignant little gasp. “Monsieur _Malfoy._ I will not even dignify that with an answer!”

_So, yes, then._ He snickered. “I’ve got to hand it to him. He’s good. You are exactly my type.” He paused a beat while her indignity bloomed into one of her hallmark lovely blushes. “Of course, I wouldn’t have said a word to you after, because you’re obviously not clever enough to confide in, but I’ve got to give him an O for effort.”

“Is there anything else you need, Monsieur Malfoy?” A _very_ different tone from the first time she asked that question.

“You’ve been an enormous help. Can’t thank you enough.” As he walked away, he popped his knuckles, basking in the sound they made and wishing it were his father’s bones.

 

*

 

There was no need to stay another night at the Hotel des Blushing Whores. He sent a quick message to Hermione, reporting on his first impression of Minister Devereux, hoping that it would entice her to ask more questions and open a gateway for another sleepless night of chatting. He then _Accio_ ’d his Portkey and landed in the middle of his father’s drawing room at Malfoy Manor.

“Father?” No answer. “ _Father!_ ”

A pop in a distant corner of the library. “Draco? You’re back early. Did you enjoy your—”

“No, I did not fuck that pretty little bird you planted at my hotel, if that’s what you want to know.”

Lucius betrayed not a hint of emotion. “Pity.” He poured himself a brandy. “Perhaps she was a tad too thin.”

“I didn’t really get a good look at her figure, Father. I was too distracted by the glaring red seal on your note that she so brashly displayed before God and Country. You really should have had her vetted.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He took a generous swig of brandy. “At any rate, if you did not succumb to the charms of my lovely little imbecile, you must have had time to focus on your task. Were you victorious?”

Draco smiled. “As you said, Father. Minister Devereux never had any intentions of listening to what I had to say.”

“So, you failed.” He sighed. “The Dark Lord will not be—”

“The Dark Lord couldn’t give a shit. He’s aching for war.” He helped himself to a brandy and threw it back in a single gulp. “He’s getting impatient and it’s making him bloodthirsty. You may have to resign yourself to the fact that you can’t control everything, Father.”

“This is _precisely_ why you should have allowed me to go in your stead, Draco.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. Minister Devereux is something neither you nor the Dark Lord can comprehend, Father.”

“And what is that?”

Draco poured himself another brandy and took a single sip. “Principled.”

 

*

 

Harry couldn’t have been more contrite as he crawled back to his tent, shaking from what he had just done. He had possibly ruined the one true friendship he had left in this place all because he was having a shitty day.

He couldn’t have told you why he’d done it. Fleur was certainly beautiful, but Harry had never thought of her like that. For as long as he could remember, he’d had tunnel vision for Hermione alone, and all other women got squeezed out of his line of sight.

He had just been so hurt. His body hadn’t quite felt like his and his brain had left the building the moment he read that first message. He wondered if he could use temporary madness as a defense?

Hermione was sitting on their cot when he returned. Her book was open in front of her, but her expression was a bit too amused to suggest she had been reading a six-volume Enlightenment-era historical text about Rome’s military glory.

Harry’s gaze hardened. “Say hello to Malfoy for me.” He immediately started to undress. When he pulled his shirt over his head, Hermione’s face was aghast.

“How do you know I’m talking to Draco?”

“I read your messages,” he said with a light lilt in his voice.

Her face immediately reddened. “ _What?_ Why would you…Harry, you _cannot_ —”

“You lied to me. You told me you would always be honest about anything that happened between the two of you.”

She blinked at him, sighing, but the darkness in her eyes did not dissipate. “It’s nothing. We’re just talking.” It was one of those evasive, half little arguments that sound good on the ears, and are satisfying to say, but the moment they leave the speaker’s lips, they betray a lack of any real argument. They betray apathy.

He nodded and transfigured a nearby chair into a sleeping bag. “Well, then don’t let me stop you.”

 

*

 

_Harry knows we’ve been talking. He’s upset._

Draco read the message several times. So…what did this mean? Were She and Potter still together? Was She cutting off their clandestine correspondence?

On the other hand…She did keep it from Potter. What did that mean, exactly?

More pressingly, what should he even say in response to that? Under normal circumstances, he’d pull a quintessential guy move. He’d offer to come over to Her place to see if She wanted to talk about it. Then he’d feel out the situation and see if talking could possibly turn into something more.

But this wasn’t normal life. _Are you upset?_

It took a _long_ time for Her to respond; at least three whole minutes, which is an eternity in the world of instant messaging. _I’m furious at him right now. But, I should have told him._

Told him what exactly? Draco tried to picture what that conversation would even look like. _Oh, and by the way, Harry. I’m going to be up all night sending ostensibly platonic, yet mildly teasing messages to Draco that I’ll probably forget about tomorrow morning but will leave him wanking for days. Hope that’s alright._

His coin warmed again. _Is this a good time for you to talk?_

Well, he was actually terribly busy, and he wasn’t sure he could squeeze Her in right n— _of bloody course_ _it was a good time!_ He struggled to think of anything in that moment that could tear him away from this little piece of currency that was worth immeasurably more to him than the value engraved upon it. _I’m all yours._

She took Her time to respond to that one too. He liked to think maybe She blushed. _So, how was France?_

He smiled at Her abrupt turn of subject. _Perfectly wretched. The food was too good, the streets too charming, and the people were too pleasant. The weather was even worse. It didn’t rain once._

_Sounds unbearable._

He grinned. _I got you a present. Or, I think I did. But it’s going to take some time before it’s quite ready._

Another long pause. _What is it?_

_I can’t tell you that. It would ruin the surprise._

_I’m not sure I like surprises._

_You’ll like this one._

_What IS it???_

He grinned, imagining Her hands on Her hips. He paused before charming his next message. _When can I see you?_

A pause. A long pause. The longest yet. He finished his nightcap, brushed his teeth, and started to pretend to read a chapter of a book before the coin lit up again.

_Tomorrow._

He slept like a baby with the promise of tomorrow.

 

*

 

Harry slept horribly, though not for the reasons one would expect. Oddly enough, the sleeping bag was more comfortable than the crowded one-person cot he typically shared with Hermione. No, discomfort wasn’t the problem.

He cracked an eye and looked over at the cot. It was empty, which meant Hermione was already up. He grumbled and popped several joints as he stood up from the ground. “Fucking hell.” At least his head was clearer than it was last night. He was still angry at Hermione, but he could at least form full sentences with his thoughts.

Which was good, because he owed Fleur a _hell_ of an apology.

He dressed quickly and left the tent to seek her out. He found her in the hospital tent. She was, as ever, up before everyone else in the camp.

She rolled her eyes. “Should I go brush my teeth again, so my breath is nice for you this time, or will you keep your lips to yourself?”

He sighed, grateful that she was at least joking with him about it. “How do I even begin to apologize for that?”

“You can grind these beetle eyes for me. That would be a start.” She handed him a mortar and pestle.

“You’re not still mad at me?”

She sighed. “Harry, I have slept since then. I would probably like to still be angry at you, but it would be disingenuous of me to pretend.”

“So, you’re not mad?”

She rolled her eyes. “You are truly an idiot. Do you not hear what I am telling you? _No_ , I am not still angry. It is a waste of time to be angry all the time. All it does is make people stupid.”

“I just mean, I’d understand if you were. It’s only human.”

She laughed at the familiar phrase she herself had used when calming her temper down after he had left her tent the night before. “Maybe. But humans are not always very smart. And none of us can afford to be stupid. So, I forgive you.”

He sighed. “I don’t deserve you, Fleur.”

“Probably not, but I do not care. I am simply just not mad anymore, so, please spare me your stupid little speeches on how I should not forgive you so easily. I am not forgiving you for your benefit. I am doing it because I am not an idiot and I do not like to pretend to be upset when I am not. So, take my fucking forgiveness or get out of my tent.”

He chuckled as he continued to grind the beetle eyes into a fine powder. “You’ve made your point. But let me say this—”

Fleur grumbled. “Oh, Circe. _Fine._ ”

“—last night…that wasn’t really me. You know me. I’m not an arsehole.”

“I know.”

“And I realize how completely out of line I was. I can’t imagine how it made you feel, and I’m so, so sorry, Fleur. Your friendship means a lot to me. Some days, you’re the only friend I’ve got left in this place. You matter to me, Fleur. And I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise.”

Fleur’s chopping slowed. She sighed. “You are… _not_ an arsehole, Harry Potter.”

“Thank you.”

“But you _are_ an arse.”

“I know.”

She rolled her eyes again. “Now that we have established that we are friends again, I am going to ask you a personal question.”

He chuckled. “My knees are trembling.”

“What do you think of Sunny?”

His pestle paused. He slowly raised his head and grinned as he looked up at her. “Fleur, you _dog_ , you!”

“Fuck me, I knew this was a mistake.”

“You _like_ him!” He grinned broadly. “Well, I’ll be _goddamned!_ ”

“You are a useless friend.”

“I like Sunny. I like you too, and I _really_ like the two of you together.”

“We are not together. We are merely…sharing a fascination.”

“You’re in love.”

“I despise you.”

“In all honesty, Sunny is a great guy. He’s probably worth several of me, in fact. You have my blessing.”

“I did not ask for your blessing. I asked what you thought of him. Now I know. Thank you for your opinion.”

“Can I ask you a personal question now, Fleur?”

She shrugged, not looking up from her work. “Whatever.”

“What do you think of Hermione?”

Although he couldn’t see them, he could sense her eyes rolling. “You have been with Hermione a long time already.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Fleur sighed as she looked up from her work. “She is very intelligent. She is pretty. She is very good at lifting heavy objects.”

“That’s a list of her attributes. What do you think about _her?_ ”

Fleur fell silent for a moment. “I think…that Hermione is probably a good person. She cares about people. She has empathy. Those are good things. But…she is selfish too. And that is not always a bad thing.”

“Why not?” Fleur chuckled. “Look at me, Harry. I am not a selfish person. How is that working out for me?”

Harry smiled sadly. “Is love selfish, Fleur? I always thought it wasn’t supposed to be. But maybe I was wrong.”

“I think…maybe it is a little bit of both.”

“I _feel_ selfish right now; like if being with Malfoy would make Hermione happy, I still wouldn’t want her to do it because she’s supposed to be with me.”

Fleur sighed. “You are only human, Harry.”

“I thought humans were stupid.”

“We are. We are very stupid.”

“Yeah.” He resumed his grinding of the beetle eyes. “Remus told me something once that I’ll never forget. He said, ‘ _Cupid may be the Master of Love, but relationships belong to Sisyphus._ ’”

Fleur laughed. “Why was Remus always right? I miss that son of a bitch.”

Harry’s chuckle was laced with a tinge of melancholy. “Is it worth it, do you think? Sometimes it all seems like some cosmic joke.”

Fleur chuckled warmly. “Oh, it is a joke. The most beautiful and ridiculous of all jokes.”


	16. Pass the Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My beta, SaintDionysus and I are drunk in Brooklyn together right now with LR Earl and LovesBitca8. I apologize for errors because I am rather inebriated. Love you guys!

 

A part of her didn't even want to see Draco today because she wasn't in the mood for men. Men were moody, shifty, sneaky, jealous creatures who shit on her privacy and accused her of imaginary treacheries.

That said, she supposed there was an argument to be made that she was not entirely in the right, as she did omit certain facts regarding the extent of her interactions with her ex. Harry had been achingly patient with her, but the man was bound to have a breaking point. She just had never imagined that point would be over her just  _talking_ to Draco.

Okay, fine. Who was she kidding?

 _Texting_ her ex-boyfriend in secret with a subtext of minor flirtation. In the Muggle world, couples broke up over this sort of thing all the time. And now here she was, polishing up on her hair charms to detangle the rat's nest her hair had become over the years before going to see said ex-boyfriend. If she were watching her life as a movie,  _she_ would be the character she hated.

_There's no harm in having a little flirtation. But do you have any idea what you're doing? You're dancing on the edge of a volcano._

Her life was a fucking goat rodeo.

"Just do your fucking job, Hermione," she said aloud to herself as she Apparated away.

 

*

 

 

Draco arrived early.

She wasn't there when he arrived, but Sunny was sitting in his window nook reading a book.

The image shook Draco a little, as he had never considered Sunny to be particularly literarily inclined.

He read aloud a familiar passage. " _You have been the last dream of my soul._  Damn. That's the most romantic shit I've ever heard. I'll be that bloke positively  _slays_ arse."

"I didn't know you could read."

He closed the book. "I figured I'd follow your example. Women like men who are well-read, don't they?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "It depends on the woman. Dare I ask who's the lucky girl?"

"You daren't.  _You're_  the one using my house to pull the Wicked Witch."

"You know what?" He flicked Sunny's ear.

" _Ow_! You bellend!"

"I'm not trying to pull Her. I'm trying to be useful. Speaking of which, why don't you be a lamb and fetch me a cup of coffee."

Sunny grumbled. "You're lucky you've got a nice arse because your manners are a natural disaster. OH, and by the way. Fleur says thank you for sending the Bulgarian bloke to their camp."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Sunny took a sip of his coffee, releasing a long, indulgent  _ahhh_  sound. "No, no. Not at all. I made that up. They're actually all  _quite_ upset about the whole thing."

"Still waiting on that coffee."

"Pour it yourself." He continued to sip his coffee as he sauntered back over to his nook, the day's Prophet in hand.

Draco rolled his eyes as he acquiesced. "So.  _Fleur_ , is it?"

Sunny snapped open the newspaper. "Fuck off."

"That wouldn't happen to be 'ze leetle Fraaanch veela' would it?"

"Fuck. Off."

"Good  _luck_  there. She was a right uppity harpy in school."

"You must be packing a fucking  _mallet_ in those trousers. Otherwise,  _why_  Wicked Witch fancies you, I'll never know."

Draco nearly dropped the French press. "She fancies me?"

Sunny shrugged his shoulders, feigning insouciance in the line of conversation he unknowingly initiated. "I guess."

Draco, on the other hand, was like a dog with a shiny new chew toy. "How do you know that? Did your French bird say something? What  _exactly_ did she say?"

"If I were a wizard, I would shoot a  _keen_ AK your way."

" _Be_  a fucking mate and answer my goddamned questions."

"That's a hard no from me, Sunshine. You see, I'm a 35-year-old man. Do you know what means?"

"Yeah, it means you've had 35 years to become a total wank stai—"

"It  _means_  I've earned the right to stay out of this crushy, schoolboy shit you arrested development, socially awkward magical twats never seemed to get out of your system at Pigfarts or whatever the hell that place is called."

"Hogwarts, you  _flaming knob_.  _Tell me_  what the fuck your little French tart said—"

"Draco? Sunny? Anybody here?"

Draco immediately adjusted his posture, leaning casually against the bar. Sunny rolled his eyes but didn't look up from the newspaper.

"Draco?"

He sipped his coffee, pretending he had only just noticed Her arrival. "You made it."

"I did. So...you wanted to see me about something?" Her gaze flickered over to Sunny.

"Sunny, fuck off."

He choked on his coffee. " _Exsqueeze_ me, Sunshine?"

"I'm sorry. Will you  _please_ fuck off so Hermione and I can talk in private?"

Sunny rolled his eyes and gathered his coffee and newspaper, approaching Hermione for a brief hug. "No hello for me?"

She smiled as She returned the hug. "I hope he's not been too much trouble for you."

"My complaints are legion, Wicked Witch. Don't be fooled by that pretty bone structure of his. He's as far from an angel as one can be."

She laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."

And suddenly they were alone. It was glaringly obvious from the way neither could exactly look at the other that something had shifted since they had taken up their old method of correspondence. The air was thicker now.

"—So, how was France?—"

"—How are you?—"

They both laughed. "You go first," Draco said.

"Well…I'm afraid Harry's quite upset with me. With  _both_ of us, actually."

"Are things alright between you two?" He hoped the words sounded sincere to Her because they tasted like pure bullshit the moment he uttered them.

"I'd rather not talk about Harry, if you don't mind. It feels…I don't know. It feels like a betrayal, somehow."

 _So, they're still together._  "Of course. It's none of my business."

"So. How was France?"

"Well," he grinned. "I have some news. I'm not sure how you're going to take it, but I hope you're pleased." They each seemed to remember why they were there and attempted to assume an air of professionalism in their postures. "There's going to be a war with France."

Hermione's face fell. "How is this  _good_  news?"

"That's not the good part. The good part is that the French Ministry is going to support the Order. They'll back you up. Give you everything you need. You'll never need to run on charity again."

He had subconsciously imagined how this conversation would go. In his fantasy, Her face would brighten. She would be grateful. She would be happy.

The reality was quite different. "I see."

"You do? Because you don't seem happy about it. Hermione, you know what this means?"

"It means that you negotiated help we didn't want or need on our behalf, without our consent."

This…was not exactly what he'd anticipated. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"We don't know these people, Draco. And we don't  _need_  their help. We've gotten along without them so far."

"And how's that working out for you?"  _Fuck._  Clearly from the hardness of Her jaw, that was the wrong thing to say. "I mean…Hermione—"

"Thanks for the news, Draco. I should probably go."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, come  _on_. You're not really mad at me, are you? Or is this just that thing you do when you're stropped about something else entirely and you're trying to make a point?"

"I don't do a  _thing_ , Draco. And for your information, yes. I am mad at you."

" _Why_? What did I do?"

"You've been with the Order  _two months_ , Draco. And already you think you can make decisions like this?  _You're_ not in charge. Harry is."

He rolled his eyes again. "Oh, of course. How can I forget?"

"Don't be so prissy about it. You messed up."

" _How_ exactly did I mess up? I was trying to do something for the Order. For  _you_."

"I never  _asked_ you for this, Malfoy."

He had forgotten this about Her. How She had a talent for backing him into corners with Her stubbornness. For such an intelligent person, when She was wound up, She had a tendency to overuse  _ad hominin_ arguments and 'because I said so' logic. If he were smart, he'd keep his mouth shut and return to this when She was calmer. "But of course, if it had been  _Harry's_ idea, you would have eaten it up." Obviously, he wasn't that clever.

"Don't you fucking dare. I'm up to my bloody neck with jealous boyfriends and pseudo-boyfriends, and I honestly can _not_ do this with you right now."

He ignored the implication that he was a 'pseudo boyfriend' and moronically opened his mouth to speak again. "I think you dished out more than your fair share of that too, love."

Her face turned a dangerous shade of red, and She went silent for a while before speaking again. "None of this changes the fact that you should have asked Harry if you wanted to create an alliance that was beyond your pay grade to make."

"What  _pay grade_? I'm a bloody volunteer! I put my arse on the line for you, and you don't even care."

"Well, I'm  _sorry_  it's such an inconvenience for you. If you'd like to be compensated for the danger your precious arse is in, I hear Death Eating pays  _quite_ well."

He knew he should silently count numbers in his head before retorting, but if he gave Her the time, She'd prance away mid-argument. " _Stop being so difficult!_  I'm doing this for you! It's all for you, why can't you see that? And I bet Potter would even agree with me. The only reason you don't is because you're too bloody stubborn to accept help! You always were!"

" _Fuck you_ , Malf—"

"Ahem. Sorry, loves. But is Sunny in by chance?"

A young woman with curly brown hair similar to Hermione's stood at the threshold in the kitchen. Her eyes narrowed knowingly between Draco and Hermione, amused that she had interrupted them in a clearly heated interaction. She made her way to Hermione, extending her hand. "I don't think we've properly been introduced. I'm Eve. I'm you. Or at least a fake you."

Hermione nodded as she shook her hand. She must have been one of Ginny's decoys. It was something Hermione had always vehemently protested, having look-alikes of some of them. She could never swallow the ethics of putting innocent lives in needless danger. "Pleasure. I apologize for the…" She gestured at the space between Her and Draco.

"Oh, it's nothing." She turned to face Draco. "You don't remember me, do you?"

Draco narrowed his eyes at the witch. He  _assumed_  she was a witch at least. Her most distinctive feature was her curly brown hair, which he likely would have remembered had they ever met because it would have reminded him of…

"Oh, hells."

She snickered. "And there it is."

Hermione looked back and forth between the two of them, Her brilliant brain clearly working in overdrive.

Draco hardened his eyes at Eve. "Can we take a message for Sunny?"

"I'd rather speak to him, myself." Eve walked into the kitchen and sat on the counter near Draco, ignoring the way he pushed away from the counter to put more distance between them. "You know, I wasn't completely sure you'd remember me. After all, you wouldn't let me stay until morn—"

"Are you  _quite_ sure you wouldn't rather we fetch Sunny for you?" The situation was so comically disastrous, Draco couldn't quite believe it was happening. The longer Eve sat on the counter, swinging her legs and breaking into Sunny's biscuit tin, the more Hermione's eyes hardened. Draco wasn't sure how to act in this situation; where to look, what to do with his hands. His throat seemed to be contracting, and his feet were sweating in his boots.

Not even he could have cooked up this nightmare. The one thing he had left in this world was his pride and the idea of Hermione learning that he had been hooking up with prostitutes who resembled Her, well…he really would rather die.

"What  _exactly_ do you do for Ginny, Eve?" Her voice was doing that false-friendly thing it did when She was pissed off. Draco closed his eyes at the realization that She already knew what Eve's answer would be.

Eve shrugged, picking at her biscuit while she answered Hermione's question. "Oh, you know. A little of this and a little of that."

"I'm afraid I  _don't_ know." Her toothy smile spoke to the contrary. Draco wasn't sure he had ever been quite so spectacularly fucked.

Eve casually tore the cookie apart while she spoke. "Well, aside from the times she needs a decoy for you, she has me make myself… _available_  to keep tabs on Death Eaters. It might surprise you to know that a lot of those buggers seem partial to women who look like you." She shot Draco a flirtatious smirk. "Isn't that right?"

Draco pressed his back teeth together until they bore the weight of his skull, cooking up an almighty migraine to go along with the fuckscape this afternoon had become. Answering Eve's question wasn't even an option for him.

"Eve, you psycho bitch, are you here for the Red's pickup?" Saved by Sunny.

She jumped from her spot on the counter. "There he is." She shot Draco a look. "Good talk. Maybe I'll see you around sometime. Again." Draco could feel one of his molars crack.

After Eve and Sunny were out of sight, Draco finally allowed himself to look at Hermione.

"That's not what you—"

"So how many are there?"

"What?"

"How many women have you fucked since me?" She spoke slowly, in the same tone She used when speaking to children.

Draco opened his mouth and then closed it again. "I seem to remember, when I asked you that same question, that you suggested I didn't have the right to know."

"And yet I'm asking it anyway."

He sighed. "You want the honest answer?"

"I'd  _love_ an honest answer."

"I don't know. A lot. And all of them have looked a little bit like you."

She swallowed loudly. "I see."

"I don't think you really do."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I just thought…I don't know what I thought." She signed. "I should go. Harry will want to know about our new  _alliance_."

Before he could even open his mouth to answer, She Apparated away on the spot, leaving him to stare wide-eyed at the space She previously occupied.

Sunny's soft footsteps announced that he was no longer alone. Luckily, he did not have Eve with him.

"So. You like professionals?"

Draco blinked at the spot where Hermione had stood. Like many disasters, this one had happened so quickly, Draco had barely had a moment to process it. A small part of him held onto the hope that if he blinked hard enough, he could wake himself up and find that it was all a horrendous nightmare. "Why do I feel like I've just been caught with my cock out at a funeral?"

"You know, if I'm being totally honest, I'm surprised. I wouldn't have thought a good-looking guy like you would need to pay for a shag. But, I guess…" he shrugged, "I'm not here to shame your preferences. You like what you like."

"It's not about…I don't particularly  _like_ them. It just… well, it simplifies things. They don't expect me to introduce them to my family or even let them sleep over. I can keep my…um… that part of my life separate."

After a long pause, Sunny released a booming laugh, filling the entire space with his dubiously-mannered mirth. Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm not laughing  _at_ you. Shit, I haven't had a shag in ages, so I can hardly comment. But you realize that could not have been  _any_ worse, right? I mean the two of you were arguing when she showed up.  _Yes_ , I was listening," he said, at Draco's questioning look. "If you're going to use my house to try and seduce the Wicked Witch, you're going to have to expect that I'll listen. Anyway, it was already  _not_ going well for you. I thought to myself, 'Bloody hell. My mate, Sunshine's about to eat a fuck load of crow.' And then you just…"

"Ate shit instead."

" _Exactly_. Very nicely put, Sunshine." For a moment, neither man said anything. "You know what would make you feel a lot bet—"

"I'm not showing you any magic right now, Sunny."

"That's fair. Just thought I'd try." Silence. "Look, I know I'm not an expert on love or anything, because I'm also pining after a woman out of my league, but it seems to me that… _maybe_ …the fucking hookers thing…it wouldn't be very satisfying."

Draco sighed. "It's not." It felt odd to discuss it because he had never had a serious conversation with anyone about his more crass habits. He realized in that moment that strangely, Sunny was the best friend he had in the world.

"I just mean…again, not judging, but I just don't imagine women you pay taste as good as women you...well, if not love, at least like enough to put forth an  _attempt_ to get them to shag you."

"Wouldn't know. I've never tasted them."

Sunny blinked at Draco. "Not even…like…you don't kiss them?"

"I've never kissed anyone but Hermione."

It was true. Kissing felt intimate in a way that sex could never be. Perhaps it's because it involved an exchange of mouths, which always seemed to Draco to be a sort of vital center of human activity. Kissing was searching for something deeper within another person and sharing your own secrets in return. He'd never met a woman besides Hermione whose hidden depths had interested him and who he trusted enough with his own.

"… _Wow_. Not gonna lie, mate, that is whack."

"Thank you for your assessment, Sunny."

Sunny ignored the sarcasm in his friend's quip. "I mean, I figured it wasn't just sexual tension between you two and that you had  _some_ kind of history, but I didn't realize you had it this bad." He paused for a beat. " _No one_?"

"Just her."

"So you actually love her."

Draco sighed, readying himself to say it out loud, an opportunity he hadn't truly had in years. "Unfortunately, yes."

"Okay. I'm going to ask you this. And please don't think it's just me being a twat."

"Perish the thought."

"But, have you thought that maybe you don't really  _love_  her? Maybe it's just the fact that she was something good you had before the world went to shit and it's the  _idea_ of her you love now? I mean a lot's happened between now and then that  _clearly_ neither of you know about each other."

"I've thought of that."

"And?"

He sighed. "I wish that was the case. But it's Her. It's always been Her. I know it as well as I know my own name."

"That's…wow. I mean, you realize that's not normal, right? People tend to…you know,  _move on_. It's just life. It's just…normal."

"Perhaps. But my life isn't normal."

"Right." Silence. "If you don't mind me asking…why? I mean, sure, she's pretty and brilliant and fierce as hell, but what is it about her that's got you _so_  fucked out that you can't even kiss another woman?"

Draco had asked himself this same question countless times over the years. He had determined that it had little to do with Her attributes, no matter how bountiful they may be. It was a darker, sadder truth that had haunted him his entire life. "She is the only dream I ever had that came true."  
  


*

 

 

_He sipped his punch, trying and failing to pretend he wasn't watching Potter out of the corner of his eye while the hulking geek danced with Draco's girlfriend. His hand was just a smidgen too low on her back for Draco's liking, and he looked positively giddy the way he kept trying to catch her eye so they could share a Moment as he spun her in repetitive, unskilled little circles. Draco was happy to note that her gaze remained unknowingly focused over his right shoulder. She seemed to have no idea how Potter felt about her. It was almost amusing how she could be the smartest person in any room, yet remain utterly oblivious to the effect she had on her best friend._

_This was Draco's third punch in twenty minutes. He couldn't ask his own girlfriend to dance at the Yule Ball, so he chose instead to nervously down cup after cup of cloying, cinnamon-scented liquid of vaguely fruity origin, wishing beyond measure that it contained the deliverance of alcohol. She looked so beautiful tonight and pretending not to look at her was nothing less than an exercise of futility._

_He wanted to get her attention so they could sneak away and ditch the party. But she was still mad at him. The conversation about how to handle the sixth year Yule Ball hadn't gone according to plan._

"What do you mean, you 'can't go stag?'" The annoyed grimace on her face indicated that despite the rhetorical nature of the question, she fully understood the implications of his statement.

"I just mean that it would look odd if I went alone. Come on, Hermione. You know I'd rather go with you if I could."

"Uh-huh. But you can't. And I understand that. So, instead, you're taking Daphne Greengrass."

"It was either her or risk encouraging Pansy. And that's the  _last_ thing I need."

"Well," Hermione said, with a falsely light tone. "If you're going to bring a date, then perhaps I'll just tell Harry that I changed my mind about going alone."

"Wait, what now?" This was not good news. Potter was obviously crazy in love with Hermione, whereas Daphne had always just been sort of…there. Draco could have been a furnishing for all the romantic interest she probably had in him.

Hermione shrugged with faux nonchalance. "I mean, it's like you said. You and Daphne are going as 'just friends,' and who's a better friend to me than Harry?"

 _Draco had insisted that her taking Potter was a false equivalency to his situation. He might have convinced her had he not concluded his argument with the stupidest thing he possibly could have said in that moment:_  "You're  _not_ going with him, and that's final."

 _So, obviously, she came with Potter. And she had made a point the week leading up to the Ball to drop suggestive little comments about how_ much  _she was looking forward to it, which did nothing to convince him that Potter taking his girlfriend to the Ball wasn't a spectacularly shit idea. They had done little but argue for days now, but as he watched Hermione flit around the dance floor in her deep blue gown, he was prepared to eat dishes upon dishes of crow for her._

_An elbow lightly nudged his rib. "Aren't you going to ask me to dance?"_

_Daphne. He supposed he hadn't been the greatest escort tonight. "Right, I'm sorry. I suppose_ _you're right. Do you want to?"_

_She rolled her eyes. "Well, when you ask me like that, how can I say no?"_

_He led her out on the dance floor. Daphne was taller than Hermione, but she was still short enough where he could see over her head. His gaze on Hermione and Potter intensified as Potter pulled her in closer._

" _Draco?"_

" _Huh?"_

_Daphne was chewing on her lip. "I said you look nice."_

" _Oh. Thanks."_

_He was utterly oblivious to the hurt little flicker of expectation in her eyes as he failed to return the sentiment, too intent was he on his least favorite person moving in on his girlfriend._

_Daphne sighed. "You know, when you asked me to come with you, I thought that meant that you would actually pay attention to me for once. But I guess that was a stretch, wasn't it?"_

_What was she even talking about?_

_Her eyebrows furrowed._

_Whoops. Apparently, he had uttered that question aloud._

" _So, who is she, then?"_

" _Who's who?"_

" _The girl who is holding so much of your attention that you haven't even noticed I'm not wearing a bra?"_

 _Draco nearly choked on the air. Too many revelations at once for him to take in. "I'm sorry…_ what? _"_

" _You know what would be a great way to see if she notices you back?"_

_He didn't think he was imagining that her voice dropped from annoyed to teasing. "Um…what?"_

_She pressed herself closer to him. "We could get out of here."_

Abort! Abort!  _Of course, Hermione chose_ now  _to finally look over at him, right when her polar opposite in the looks department was rubbing herself all over him. And boy, did she look pissed._

_In an instant Draco backed away and tried to communicate with his eyes that she had it all wrong, but she was making polite excuses to Potter about how she needed air, and no thank you, she just wanted to be alone for a bit._

_Daphne giggled into his chest. "Merlin, are you actually bent? Did Pansy just win 50 Galleons?"_

_Draco rolled his eyes. Honestly, women all thought they were so irresistible that a bloke would have to be gay not to be interested. "Not to be rude, Daph, but_ fuck off. _" Abandoning all thoughts of subtlety, he headed off in Hermione's direction, leaving a gaping, wide-eyed Daphne to be comforted by the ever-opportunistic Theo._

_It didn't take long to catch up with her. She meant for him to catch her, after all. "Hermione. Hermione, wait."_

" _Don't let me ruin your night."_

_He rolled his eyes again. Honestly, what was up with women tonight? "Are we actually doing this? Do you realize how pathetically cliché it would be if you actually misconstrued what happened back there?"_

" _Don't call me pathetic. I have every right to be upset when some willowy blonde is dry humping my boyfriend in public."_

" _And what about Potter, huh? What was that?" She opened her mouth to retort, but he stopped her. "Don't bother saying the thing you always say about how the two of you are 'just friends' or whatever because I've heard it all before. I don't care to hear it again, because it's_ total  _bullshit, at least where he's concerned." She opened her mouth to speak again, but he once again cut her off. "Hermione, I'm sorry. You were right. If we couldn't come together, we should have come to the Ball alone."_

 _She blinked rapidly at him, obviously at a loss of words, probably expecting that he wouldn't concede so quickly. "Well…of_ course  _I was right."_

_He grinned at her. "I don't like it when we fight."_

" _Well, it's no picnic in the park for me either."_

" _I only wanted to be with_ you _all evening. You have no idea what it was like watching you dance with Potter while you looked like that and I wasn't even allowed to talk to you."_

_Against her will, her lips turned up in a grin. "Do you like it?" She gestured towards her dress. It was a simple A-line silhouette in a bright navy color that complimented her creamy skin perfectly. Compared to Daphne's gown, it looked positively demure. Rather than showing off her cleavage, the top swept across her collarbone, just about as far from low-cut as it was possible to be. But something about the unassuming elegance of it made Draco's mouth dry up. The effect drew focus to her long neck and small waist; parts of her body that he cherished every bit as much as the more obvious focal points._

_He rakishly stalked towards her and backed her against a wall. "Very much." He lowered his lip underneath her ear and kissed her there. "Too much entirely."_

_She bit her lip as his voice traveled up her spine. "I didn't like seeing Daphne dance with you either."_

" _You were jealous." He kissed her ear again._

" _So were you."_

" _Yeah." He pulled back. "I fucking was." Finally, he leaned down and captured her lips with his._

_And they both forgot why they were ever upset at one another._

 

_*_

 

 

Hermione landed back at the camp with her eyes stinging in their sockets. She  _hated_ this feeling; this unjustified jealousy that made her feel both simpering and stupid, two things she wasn't used to being. She and Draco weren't together anymore, so  _logically_ she knew that she had no claim on him and he was entitled to sleep with whomever he wanted.

Even if that included knock-off versions of herself.

She tried to compose herself from her fight with Draco before she went into her tent to have a fight with Harry.

"You're back."

"Yeah."

"You saw Malfoy, I guess."

"Don't start. He had Order business he wanted to discuss."

Harry chuckled darkly. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

"Harry."

"I'm genuinely asking. I've been out of the loop for 7 years. You never know."

"I'm not  _fucking_ Draco."

"Well, you're doing something with him."

"Harry, he's negotiated with the French Ministry to be our ally."

"That's…"  _actually a pretty fucking good idea_ , but Harry wasn't about to say that, "interesting."

"That's it?"

"That's  _very_ interesting?"

"Are you not upset that he went behind our backs and—"

"Am I upset that Malfoy did his job instead of just drooling after my girlfriend? No. Am I still upset with you? Indescribably."

"You went through my stuff."

"You  _lied_ to me."

"You…" pause "Okay,  _fine_! I should have told you about the Galleon. But we had had the fucking things since we were goddamned children, so it sort of slipped my mind that—"

"You held onto it?" He chuckled darkly. "That is just fucking incredible." He rubbed his face, looking away from her. "You realize that we don't trust each other?"

"Don't pretend like you didn't run to Fleur the second—"

"You can't honestly equate mine and Fleur's one hundred percent platonic relationship with yours and Malfoy's twisted, Wuthering Heights fuckery. But you should know, since I don't lie to you, I  _did_  kiss her."

She almost didn't register what he said. It didn't seem like something she could ever equate with her boyfriend. "What?"

"Just being honest. I kissed her, but I don't even know why. I've never even thought about her like that. But I thought you should know since  _I_ have no secrets from  _you_."

Hermione's mouth remained open. She wasn't sure if she was more outraged at Harry's confession, the nonchalance with which he delivered it, or the fact that she really didn't have much of a leg to stand on in terms of being angry about it.

"So…should I be worried?"

" _Are_ you worried? I mean, is the idea of me kissing another woman something that would actually concern you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Tell you what, Hermione." Harry turned to look at her, with an irritatingly patient look on his face, as if he'd rehearsed how this conversation could go a dozen times and prepared for any possible outcome. "How about we put a pin in this conversation right now before you say something to make this fight even worse. There  _will_ certainly be a fight, I promise you that. But there's no need to make it worse."

"I wasn't going to—"

"Please don't finish that sentence, babe." His expression softened. "We both know you will."

 

*

 

 

Hermione begrudgingly took Harry's advice and went on a walk to clear her mind. The beauty of the forest did nothing for her mood. The birds flirted outrageously with one another on the centuries-aged oaks. The trees were showing off their ability to make life, as they were bursting with ostentatious verdancy. Everything carried with it the squeaky-clean stillness from the rain the night before. And dewy rays of sunlight pierced through every gap between the trees, creating little pools of heaven on the forest floor. It was a day for whimsy and optimism, and Hermione loathed it.

To make matters worse, the beauty of the woods seemed to conjure an otherworldly faerie specimen with ethereal beauty and inexplicably crass manners, who was currently gathering wild mushrooms on the forest floor.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Seriously?"

Fleur looked up. "Harry told you, did he?"

"He did."

"I did not kiss back if it makes you feel better. But it will not, of course, because right now, you kind of want to punch me in the face, I imagine."

"I…yeah."

Fleur shrugged in an almost disinterested, flippant way. Hermione knew the part-veela could easily kick her arse into next week if she tried such a thing. Fleur might not train like Hermione did, but there was something  _scrappy_ about her. "I would not advise it, but I understand the sentiment."

Hermione almost laughed as Fleur confirmed her little whim of a thought. "You realize how hard it is to know that my boyfriend confides in a woman like you?"

"I do not care, really. There has never been, nor will there ever be anything between Harry and I. You can either accept that or not. But I do not believe you truly have the right to be jealous."

"Not you too."

"Hey," he raised his hands at his side, "I do not care. Honestly. I  _really_ do not care. Everyone seems to be sitting in the sidelines wondering 'who will Hermione pick?' But  _I_ could not give less of a shit because there are much more important things to worry about than your  _absolutely bat shit insane_ love life. You know," he laughed darkly. "If I am being honest, I do not understand what it is about you that makes men so crazy. Really. I do not get it. Sure, you are pretty, intelligent, and a bunch of other things, but you are a  _fucking_ bitch, too. You are hurting my friend very deeply, you know that?"

Any other day, Hermione would never have allowed someone to speak to her like that. "Yeah. I know that."

"I mean, you do not even seem to really understand what love is. Perhaps you do not deserve either one of them."

"Perhaps I don't."

"Are you just going to string Harry along forever?"

"I'm not stringing—"

"Please do not even finish that fucking sentence. You know what you're doing. You have always done it. Do not, even for  _one goddamned second_ pretend that you did not know he was over the moon for you back in school. Women have an infallible gift for knowing when a man falls in love with them. You knew it. And you encouraged it."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "We were friends. That was it."

"Maybe so, but you knew what you were doing. We women, we like to pretend that we would  _never_ put a man in…what is it called, the 'friend zone?' But let us be honest with each other, Hermione."

"Okay, let's be honest."

Fleur flashed her lovely teeth in a smile that had nothing to do with friendliness. "We know what we are doing. Sometimes we do it for no other reason than we are bored and we want to see what can happen. Perhaps some women do it so they can feel powerful or pretty. I do not know. But I do know that it is a real thing that we sometimes do and to deny it is a lie."

She wanted to argue with her. She wanted to look her dead in the eye and  _insist_  that  _she_ had never done anything like that, despite what Fleur herself may have done, and that frankly, it was a tad sexist of her to have such a bleak lack of solidarity with her own sex.

She might have, too, had Fleur been wrong.

 

*

 

 

 _That night, she came back to the Common Room, happy and stupid in the way only the very young and very in love could be. Her hairstyle that Parvati and Lavender helped her with was completely fucked from Draco's wandering hands, but damn it all if she could find the will to care. She hadn't looked in a mirror in hours, but it wouldn't have surprised her to see that her skin was_ actually  _glowing and that her eyes were shining like the Black Lake under a full moon. It was one of those moments she imagined she'd look back on years from now when she wanted to remember her happy, ridiculous youth, and see herself as she was now; a beautiful, happy young woman without a care in the world. Yes, tonight she truly felt beautiful._

_A cough brought her back to reality. "You disappeared."_

_Harry. Oh, fucking hell, she had abandoned him! He had been so nice to her all night, and she had left him stranded in the middle of the evening. "I just…I needed…" She had no ready-made excuses. Her brain still felt fuzzy from the way Draco had gripped her hips whispered in her ear for the past half hour. "I'm sorry, Harry."_

" _It's alright. I just…you know, I worried."_

" _You're sweet to worry, but I'm perfectly fine."_

" _I know." He stood up off the couch, carrying in his eyes a confidence Hermione had only seen him display on the Quidditch pitch. It was a silly thing, but she wondered when he had grown so tall. She might have noticed when they were dancing, had she not been glaring daggers at the lithe, lovely Daphne Greengrass as she draped herself across Draco on the dancefloor._

" _I'm sorry."_

" _It's alright. I just…wanted you to know that I had a really good time tonight." He swallowed deeply, causing his Adam's apple to bob in his throat. He looked nervous again. "You looked…you_ look _really pretty tonight, Hermione."_

_Oh god. She wished this was more of a surprise, but a part of her had been expecting this. She tried to ignore he had gotten bolder lately. She searched her brain for something to say to her best friend to neutralize his obvious intent. "Thank you." She doubted it was sufficient._

" _I…" He swallowed again. "Hermione, you know that—"_

" _Thank you for the lovely evening, Harry." She turned her heel and ascended the staircase to her dorm room, not daring to look back at him._

 

_*_

 

 

Hermione couldn't think about that night with a clear conscience. Mainly, for the exact same reason, Fleur said: she knew about Harry's feelings for her, and it didn't matter. A part of her enjoyed the attention, so she always managed to convince herself that it was just a harmless crush that would go away on its own, even if she did absolutely nothing differently. Her behavior never changed despite the fact that she knew how her best friend felt about her. Little touches, comments, and smiles that to a normal person would be innocuous but set Harry on fire. And deep down, Hermione knew this. And she did it anyway.

She also couldn't say with one hundred percent certainty how the evening would have gone had Draco not come after her. If they hadn't made up, and she had gone back to her Common Room to find Harry with eyes full of fire and male interest, what would have happened? She couldn't say for sure. And it made her feel like shit.

The truth was, Harry would have presented a perfect opportunity for her to take a stab at Draco. And she  _knew_ deep down that Draco hadn't done anything wrong. He'd had no interest in that simpering little chit, Daphne Greengrass. He'd never have done anything with her, even if he and Hermione weren't speaking at the time. But Hermione was possessive, and her possessiveness often awoke what she could only describe as a sort of demon; a dark part of her soul with compulsions and insecurities that on her best days she would never entertain. And that terrified her.

Then again, Draco was possessive too. He often made biting little off-handed comments about Harry's obvious interest in her, which she always brushed off with surface-level denial. The difference between hers and Draco's possessiveness was that Draco's was much more justified.

This volatile dynamic often led to turbulence in their relationship. And on those occasions, Hermione's evil twin seemed to rise from the ashes and revel in the conflict, lighting little fires and dancing in the ashes.

What she and Harry had was so stable in comparison. Stability was…surprisingly nice, largely because it was a novelty that she didn't quite understand fully. If there was one thing she had always been a sucker for, it was novelty. Perhaps that's why she ever looked sideways at the son of a Death Eater in the first place, or why she ended up dating her best friend.

"Fuck," she whispered to herself. "Am I a bad person?" She said this to no one. Even just saying it out loud, she knew it was, at its core, a narcissistic question. She wasn't bad. She just wasn't particularly good. Maybe she had never been.

But she wanted to be. She really, really did.


	17. A Series of Uncomfortable Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> I can't apologize enough for taking so long to get this to you guys. I promise you, this story is never far from my mind. It comes to you fresh from the sparkling beta eyes of SaintDionysus.
> 
> Songs for this chapter are: (1) "Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby" by Cigarettes After Sex; (2) "For Prayer" by Wye Oak; and (3) "Daydream in Blue" by I Monster.
> 
> Enjoy!

He sent Her messages. Either She hadn't received them, or She was ignoring him. Either was plausible, but the latter was most likely. He poured himself a glass of brandy and sipped mindlessly while he went over the events of the day.

He hadn't done anything technically wrong. Logically, he knew this. But logic couldn't change the fact that She was disappointed in him. Though, whether it was because there had been other women at all, or because those women had been rented, he couldn't say.

It was a strange fallacy of reason that human beings should feel a kind of ownership over their former lovers. Draco couldn't condemn it, for he was guilty of it himself. The thought of Potter touching Her made the space behind his eyes burn, yet he knew that Potter had the true claim.

In fact, if Draco truly allowed himself to think in detail about it, Potter had touched Her more times than Draco ever had. Likewise, if Draco were to count all his interactions with women like Eve, he had no doubt that they would far surpass the times he had ever been with Hermione.

And yet he couldn't shake the idea that She was his and always would be. Which is why it was beyond frustrating that she insisted on ignoring him now, not that he was surprised. This was her  _modus operandi_. When she was upset, She became a cupcake rolled in broken glass; the epitome of passive aggressive.

He drained his glass and quickly poured himself another, fishing the coin out of his pocket yet again, and clutching it for dear life.

* * *

I missed you. Meet me later?

_He sent the message with a bubble of elation in his chest. To say his holiday had been toxic was akin to saying that the Dark Lord was a tad willful. Just the notion of even tugging on one of her curls and watching it bounce filled him with a cleansing light._

_Still, he'd resolved not to mention the prostitutes. After the fight they'd had the night before they left for Yule hols, it was best not to fill her with more needless worry. It wasn't like there was ever any danger of him being untrue to her._

" _Welcome back, arsehole," Theo said, rifling through his trunk to unpack his belongings._

" _Is that how you greet people now?"_

" _What were you expecting? A jocular embrace?"_

" _A hello would have sufficed."_

" _Hello, then. Does that satisfy your poncy Highness?" He paused in his unpacking and eyed his friend with curiosity. "A little birdy told me you had yourself a merry little Christmas."_

" _Oh?" Draco tucked the coin into his pocket, attempting to feign indifference. "What birdy would that be?"_

" _Your father bragged about it to my father."_

" _Bragged? Did I bring honor to our family by fucking a few whores?"_

" _Don't flatter yourself, mate. He was bragging on_ himself _. What kind of a father treats his son to the finest courtesans in England? And if you ask me, he bloody earned the right. My father never gave me anything half so extravagant, except perhaps a ragweed allergy."_

_Draco rolled his eyes, hoping Theo chose to end the conversation soon but resigning himself to its unlikeliness. He unbuckled his trunk, hoping to at least distract himself with the task of unpacking._

" _Honestly, I was a bit surprised. After the Yule Ball, I wasn't sure you had it in you."_

_Draco looked up from his trunk to find Theo smirking at him. "Meaning?"_

" _Meaning lovely Daphne was feeling so rejected that night, she needed_ a lot  _of encouragement that she was still shaggable. I suppose I should be thanking you. I pulled a muscle in my right thigh."_

" _Glad I could help," he deadpanned._

_Theo snickered. "She was convinced you were bent, which of course is bullshit." He paused before softening his voice and asking, "Isn't it?"_

_Draco chuckled as he unearthed his socks and threw them into the laundry. But when he looked up at Theo, he was startled to find that his friend wasn't regarding him with the same teasing tone he usually did. "_ No _, I am not bloody well bent." He couldn't believe he was forced to have this conversation. "Just because I don't fancy dipping my wick in the witch who gave goodbye blow jobs to all the 7_ _th_ _year Slytherins last year as a graduation gift doesn't mean I fancy blokes."_

_Theo nodded. "But just to be clear, you have no objection to fucking three whores your daddy bought for you?"_

_Draco scowled at his friend. "Fuck off, Theo. Why do you suddenly care so much about my sex life?"_

" _I just can't picture it. You never seem to pay any attention to any of the girls here. There are those who would find that a bit odd."_

_Draco could feel his temper rising. Theo never did anything without reason, and it was becoming increasingly clear that this conversation was not just small talk. "Why don't you just bloody say what you're actually thinking for once in your life?"_

" _Fine. Are you shagging blokes or are you shagging the Mudblood?" And there it fucking was._

" _Because if you're shagging the Mudblood, you're in some seriously deep shit and I'd advise you to stop immediately, but if you're shagging blokes, you just need to be a little more careful to throw people off your scent."_

" _You mean like you do?" He wasn't sure what made him say that. He knew his friend liked girls and had no interest in—_

" _Exactly."_

_Draco froze. His brain hadn't totally caught up with the conversation, so he failed to notice Theo take a step towards him._

" _I can teach you to be more discreet. If that's what you want."_

_Theo made it three steps before Draco regained consciousness and immediately recognized a vaguely carnal look in his friend's eyes. "Wait a minute,_ what? _" Theo froze at the horrified look on Draco's face. "You're gay?"_

_Theo's posture softened, and he tried to chuckle the tension away. "No, I'm not_ bloody _gay. I shagged Daphne raw, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. But…" He shrugged. "An orgasm's an orgasm. Doesn't matter how you get it or who gives it to you."_

_Un. Believable. "I respectfully disagree."_

" _Oh, so you_ are  _shagging the Mudblood, then."_

" _I'm not shagging anyone, Theo, and if I were, it would_ not  _be any of your goddamn business."_

" _Except the whores."_

_Draco rolled his eyes. "What?"_

" _You're not shagging anyone except the whores your daddy bought you. Remember?"_

_Draco blinked, forcing his rising temper to dampen, so he could at least attempt a semblance of confidence in his voice. "Right. That's what I meant."_

" _You know what I think? I don't think you so much as got it up. I think you're so fucked off about the Mudblood that you can barely even see clearly."_

_Draco rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Right. Well, you can swallow a bouquet of cocks, and get fucked, then. Oh, wait. But I suppose you'd like that, wouldn't you?"_

_He was being grabbed by the collar of his shirt and pressed into the wall so suddenly, he hadn't even seen it coming. The look in Theo's eyes was one he had witnessed before, but never had it been directed at him. It was the look he gave first years who walked too closely behind him in the corridors and stepped on his cloak. It was the look he gave house elves who brought him the wrong drink. It was the look that said he was seconds away from marrying batshit with apeshit and Merlin help anyone who got caught in the fallout._

_Theo's breath came in short pants as he hissed between his teeth. "You know…I try to look out for you, Draco, I really do. But sometimes, you really are an ungrateful little cunt. You can shame me all you want, but at the end of the day, I don't stick my prick in anything that isn't pure." His eyes glinted with dark amusement. "Wait a minute…do you think you_ love her? _Is that why you wouldn't fuck Greengrass?" He chuckled, and Draco continued to stare at a spot in the floor, unwilling and unable to confirm or deny Theo's newfound insights. "There is no love in this world that a good fuck couldn't cure. Put that in your bloody coin."_

_Draco wanted to kill him in that moment. His mind had gone black against Theo's words. Had he_

_been able to focus on anything else but his white-hot, numbing anger, he might have done so._

_Theo continued. "If you want to be a slave to your cock, no one's stopping you. But I'd suggest you point it at someone other than a Mudblood who isn't even all that pretty."_

_When he released him, Draco couldn't move for several seconds. He knew he should say something, that he couldn't just leave it like that, but he couldn't find the words. There were too many things to focus on. When he finally tore his eyes away from the spot on the floor to look_

_Theo in the face again, he realized that he didn't know his friend at all. He was looking at the face of a stranger._

_Suddenly he saw everything so clearly._

_Five-year-old Theo cackling as his older brother charmed hats, scarves, and mittens to follow his house elves around. Five-year-old Draco laughed at his light-hearted, humorous friend. But sixteen-year-old Draco remembered the look of terror on the house elves' faces. Terror. They had been terrified and Theo had known this._

_Ten-year-old Theo slashing him in the face with a paper cutter for touching his broomstick._

_Twelve-year-old Theo spreading a rumor that Susan Bones was a hermaphrodite after she refused to let him snog her. She took a two-week break from school until people forgot about it._

_Fourteen-year-old Theo engaging him in a debate about magical purity. He had liked to play a game where he would play the Devil's Advocate so well, that Draco would be convinced in the end, that Theo had been correct all along. "_ Are you sure I'm right? _" Draco would say, "_ Yes. You're right. You've changed my mind. _" Theo would sneer and say, "_ Good. Because now I'm going to prove to you that you were right all along, and give you the arguments that you should have given me if you were smarter. _"_

_It was cruelty. Theo was cruel. And Draco was…well, he wasn't really sure what he was, yet. It was too soon to say. But he was certain that whatever his flaws, he was not cruel._

_Draco turned to the door, needing to put space between them, and not even caring that he was leaving his trunk half unpacked on his bed._

" _Going to meet her now, are you?" Had Theo's voice always carried such nasty inflections?_

" _No. I just need to get away from you." He didn't turn his head to see Theo's reaction. He didn't care. He barely even registered the fact that his friend knew about him and Hermione and he had barely even denied it._

_It would be okay. Theo might have been a prejudiced, creepy, jaded wanker, but he wasn't a fink. He was undoubtedly an arsehole, but he'd never betray Draco, especially when he had no real evidence._

_As he got closer to the room where she was meeting him, his heart rate spiked in anticipation. Something Theo said had stuck out to him._

Do you think you  _love_ her?

_Not at all._

_He_ knew _it._

_He knew it at Christmas when he spent the evening playing chess with three half-naked sex goddesses, and at no time was he tempted to suggest a game of a different nature. He knew it every time she'd smile at him and wrinkle her nose, accentuating the little freckles dotting her pale skin. He knew it when he'd bury his face in her hair and recognize the scent of Home._

" _Draco."_

_His body still thrumming with adrenaline, he grabbed her and pressed her against the wall before smothering her lips under his. She didn't stop him. She pushed back, matching him fire for fire._

_Apparently, he had been missed._

_There was no hesitation between them as their hunger escalated. Draco was so ravenous for her touch, every brush of her fingertips felt like fire dancing across his flesh as she undressed him without a word, inviting him to do the same to her. So much warmth. So much fragrant skin._

_Draco dropped to his knees and swirled his tongue in her belly button before dropping lower. Not a word was spoken as he dipped his tongue inside her, something he had never done before. He barely even noticed her sweet moans and musky taste as he gave into his compulsion to show her just how much she meant to him, how much he only wanted to spend the next thousand hours wrapped around her._

Love you, love you, love you.

_Like legions of teenaged boys before him, he believed he had invented the very notion of loving a girl. His young mind couldn't conceive that anything before this moment had been so big, so important. He could power the world with what he felt for the trembling, aching girl above him._

_As he feasted on her, he sought out her eyes and saw that she felt the same: that this world would last forever and that they were the only ones in the world who held the key, if only they could keep loving._

_Minutes later as she came on his tongue, he looked up at her, glowing, flushed, and panting._

" _I love you. Do you know that?"_

* * *

His wand dangled above the coin, waiting for instruction to send the message; the words he'd said to Her many times since that first time in January of their sixth year at Hogwarts. He doubted they'd be received as they were then, with Her pinning him to the ground and sucking his prick into Her hot mouth.  _Sweet glorious Circe_  that had been a revelation…

He had to mentally slap himself. Thinking with his cock was precisely why She was upset at him now.

Even though he hadn't really done anything wrong.

"Galleon for your thoughts?" a familiar voice pierced through his office.

"Father." He scrambled to put the Galleon away. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure."

"Watch your cheek. I come bearing concern."

"Lovely. Pertaining to what?"

"Rowle and Greyback. You need to keep a better eye on them."

Lucius wouldn't be Lucius without the rabid micromanaging. Perhaps it was how he showed his love, and Draco had been mistaking it all these years as disapproval. "I have a meeting with them tomorrow—"

"Perfect. I'd like to be there." Lucius must love him  _a lot_.

"Absolutely not. Anything else?"

"You're distracted. And if Greyback doesn't notice, you can be damned sure Rowle will."

Draco pocketed his Galleon. "I assure you, Father, my mind is appropriately focused. No matter what your little spies tell you." Lucius seemed to be taking measure of him, which was nothing new. But something in his father's eyes was unreadable to Draco. Not that he had ever completely mastered how to read his father. "Here's an idea. Why don't you tell me  _exactly_ what you think is wrong with me? Let's just  _try_  it. I realize it's a novelty because saying the very thing we mean has never been this family's forte, but just for the hell of it, why don't you give it a go?"

Lucius sighed, leaning heavily on his cane. "Fine."

Draco had not expected his bravado to work in his favor. Another novelty.

"I believe you are in some way still involved with Hermione Granger. She has always been your Achilles Cock and has therefore inhibited your ability to see your duties clearly. And despite everything I have tried to do for you, it seems the mere memory of her inspires you to weakness."

Draco listened to his father's little speech with feigned calm. "May I speak now?"

"I wish you would."

"Despite what you may believe, I do appreciate your concern." What surprised him the most about this statement is that it did carry with it the cloying flavor that lies usually leave on his tongue. Perhaps he really meant it. "I realize that without your help, I wouldn't be where I am today. I might not have lived past seventeen. And despite the fact that since I accepted your help, my life has started to resemble a Hieronymous Bosch painting, I'm grateful to you."

"Draco—"

"Let me finish." He wondered if this would work. Gaslighting had always been Lucius's specialty, but years of watching his father had taught Draco much. "I think, perhaps, it might do you some good to take a holiday. You're obviously under even more stress than I, if my current predicament with the rebels and the French Ministry has affected  _you_  so."

Lucius's lip curled. "Do not think that I am blind to what you're doing."

"On the contrary, Father. Unlike you, I make no attempt to keep my intent a mystery. You have attempted to interfere in matters which were entrusted to me by the Dark Lord himself. Your interference has been a hindrance and a distraction to both of us."

"Now you listen here,  _boy_ —"

"Oh, but I'm not a boy anymore, Father. I haven't been a boy for many years now, not since I made a pact with you, just like Faust wasn't a boy when he made his own famous little bargain. We did what we had to do. I learned a lot from that experience, and now I'm doing the same again. If you do not feel that a holiday would benefit you, I will be forced to appeal to the Dark Lord on behalf of your health. As to your  _ridiculous_  accusations about my imaginary entanglement with Hermione Granger, I cannot even dignify such a fantasy with a denial. My job is to find Her and the rest of the Order, and make no mistake, Father." He forced his eyes to go cold, remembering how Theo looked when he pinned him against the wall in their dorm. "When I do find Her, I  _will_ keep Her for myself. The Dark Lord will gift Her to me as a token of his gratitude for my service. In the meantime, I suggest you keep your musings to yourself, lest anyone believe you to…no longer be of  _use_." He allowed a pause to emphasize that last word. "I'm sure you will forgive me if I have to dismiss your prognosis as nothing more than the ravings of a paranoid old man."

Draco looked at his father, truly  _looked_ at him for perhaps the first time in a long while. There was certainly something different about him. This something shot Draco through the chest like one of his Uncle Rod's  _Stupefies,_  and he immediately realized that everything he just said was true.

It was his eyes. They were tired.

Not exactly tired, even, but perhaps something worse; something deeper.

'Weary' was the word. Lucius Malfoy was weary.

As a little boy, Draco would never have even hazarded a guess as to his father's age. Had he tried, he might have imagined it to be anywhere from 35 to 60. Nothing about him suggested wear or disintegration, yet he had the bearing and poise of a being that had existed for an age.

Something in his very energy, the air around him, suggested a vitality and a keen thirst that even the Dark Lord would envy.

It was his eyes. Women had always whispered underneath their hands that they were the color of the sea before a storm, containing the same restlessness and danger. Anyone who tried to refuse Lucius Malfoy anything could only do so for as long as they could look away from his eyes. The moment he trapped them with his gaze, their fate would be sealed.

It was his eyes then, and it was his eyes now. Looking at them now, he could see that they had the same depth, warmth, and life as fossilized ice. That is to say, none at all. Dark circles framed them, accentuating their hollowness. The realization bit at Draco, and he wondered how long he had failed to notice this sharp change in his father.

To Draco's further surprise, the corner of Lucius's mouth lilted up in a weak grin. "It's taken you years, but it seems you have finally killed that delicate, bookish little boy you once were."

"Anything to make you proud."

He chuckled at his son's biting quip. "My son, if that has been your goal in life, I'm afraid it has been a life wasted."

* * *

He didn't say more. He didn't say:  _Because I was proud of you since the day you were born._

Perhaps he should have. But his son had spent his entire life trying to please other people. It was time Draco learned how impossible it was.

So, he didn't say the rest.

People could say what they'd like about him, but for all his failings as a father and a husband, Lucius Malfoy understood how life worked. He knew that fathers who wanted too much for their children consistently disappointed themselves because success did not come without a price.

And try as they may, parents could never pay that price for their children.

There was a time Lucius wanted Draco to marry well, father an heir, and take over the Malfoy estate, maintaining it and building the family wealth in the same manner that he had done when he was young, as his father had done before him. He might have even harbored a secret ambition for Draco to go into politics when the time was right and perhaps one day become Minister for Magic.

But Lucius had abandoned all these secret ambitions. Over the years he watched them die one by one until there was only one left.

It was his dearest and only hope in life that Draco could survive on his own,  _without_ him in the background pulling the strings. And if he could do it with some semblance of his soul left intact, all the better.

Though, he didn't hold out much hope for that bit.

* * *

"No.  _Fuck_ no," Harry said. He scratched his beard and gave Hannah's suggestion the benefit of another half second of consideration. "No. No, I meant that. Absolutely fucking not."

Hannah Abbott was a far cry from the apple-cheeked, laughter-filled girl with the sunshine-colored pigtails she had been at school. Years of scouting had sharpened her features and roughened her fair skin into leather. Having spent the past few years looking perpetually over her shoulder, she had developed shifty, squirrely social skills. For example, because her bright blond hair was so easily recognizable, she shaved it off completely so she wouldn't be able to leave traces of it in the forest for a Snatcher to find. Harry was grateful for her competence but often found her cautiousness grating.

"I don't like it either, Harry, but I'm telling you that if Rowle doesn't know where we are now, he's not far off. We've got to move."

"Hannah," he said, his voice dropping half an octave in a mildly-patronizing tone he often utilized when explaining his position to a passionate person. "I appreciate your concern, but—"

"It's not  _concern_ , Harry. Concern is your mum looking at the clock when it's almost time for curfew. What I am is fucking  _incensed_. It's been ages since a Snatcher has scouted so close to our camp. And every day he gets a little bit warmer. I realize moving is uncomfortable, but that's not a good enough reason not to listen to me."

Harry had not kept everyone alive for so long by burying his head in the sand. He realized that part of leadership was delegation and trusting your people when they believed strongly in something they knew more about than you. But this was the worst time to be moving. The camp was still mourning Ron's loss, tensions were high with Krum trying to assimilate, and now he and Hermione were fighting.

"Do you know why Hufflepuffs are so underestimated?" Hannah asked, her eyes darkening into sharp little beads. "Because badgers don't bound into the middle of the herd like lions. They don't sneak around their prey and slither on the ground like snakes. And they don't go over everyone else's head so they can see everything at once before diving in and attacking. But you know what they can do?"

Harry sighed. "What?"

Hannah's eyes hardened into two icy marbles of glass. "When a badger chomps down on something, they don't let go until they hear bones crunch. They don't take  _anything_  for granted.

We might not be brave like you Gryffindors, but the fact that we  _aren't_ risk takers is precisely the reason you should take us seriously. When we call "wolf," we fucking mean it."

"Interesting."

"Don't patronize me, Potter.  _Listen_ to me. I'm telling you that Rowle is days away from fucking us in the ass if we don't move camp. Even if I'm wrong, that's not a risk I'd be willing to take."

_Honey badger don't give a shit._

It was impossible not to be moved by her candor.

And yet, Harry had always prided himself on being capable of the impossible. "I'm sorry, but my decision is final. We'll double the lookouts if that will make you feel better, but we're not moving."

She could have cut stone with her glare. "Whatever you say, boss."

* * *

"I'm not the center of the universe." Hermione knew she wasn't, but she felt she needed to say it out loud, although no one was listening. "I am nothing, even."

Hermione Granger loved to learn. Rather, Hermione Granger  _once_ loved to learn. Nothing thrilled her more than poring over a tome half her size full of esoteric facts most people would consider useless garbage. She had loved learning for its own sake; a true student. But it had taken her years to learn the truly important things. And now she resented this knowledge.

Her coin warmed in her pocket, but she didn't check it. It was Draco, sending yet another semi-apologetic message. Being no fool, Hermione realized this was unnecessary, that he had nothing to apologize for. He wasn't hers. Not really. Still, it was a thoughtful gesture.

But speaking to Him wasn't yet an option, not because she was angry, because she wasn't. In fact, she had never really been at all. The anger she thought she initially had felt, upon reflection revealed itself to be narcissism; a ravaged ego.

Over the past few years, she had had precious little to keep her warm at night. She had Ron's laughter, Harry's eager adoration, but most of all, she had the thought that Draco Malfoy somewhere, somehow was still in love with her. And although she had been correct in that supposition, it was not in the way she imagined it. In her heart of hearts, Draco refused to touch or even look at another woman. She saw now what a ridiculous notion. She, after all, had Harry to keep her loneliness at bay. It was only natural that Draco would feel lonely too, and that He would seek a warm body to help Him feel it less.

Ridiculous, selfish girl.

She would tell Him so when she spoke to Him next. She would tell Him that there was nothing to forgive.

But not yet.

She arrived at hers and Harry's tent just in time to see Hannah Abbott and Terry Boot skulking away with disappointed grimaces on their faces. Harry probably shut down another one of Hannah's ideas. He should probably do that a little less. Hannah was competent, but her loyalty was the sort that needed to be fed regularly, less it waste away.

"Harry."

He looked up from the letter he was in the middle of writing, but his face betrayed no emotion.

_He's learning_ , she thought. "You're probably still angry at me."

He returned his attention to his letter. "Actually, I assumed it was the other way around."

"Because you kissed Fleur?"

He dropped his quill forcefully on the table. " _Jesus_ , Hermione.  _No_. I assumed it was because I looked through your stuff. As far as Fleur is concerned, you shouldn't worry—"

"I know, Harry." It wasn't anger. Just a wounded ego. "You need a haircut."

He chuckled at her abrupt change of topic. "Do I?"

"I'll do it for you, if you'd like."

He seemed to realize this was a segue into some sort of apology and he accepted,  _Accioing_ a blanket to drape across his chest and leaning back in his chair as she walked around him.

She ran her fingers through his hair as she had always enjoyed doing, relishing in the fact that it was just as unruly as her own. She summoned her scissors and began to trim the sides. "I

wanted to apologize."

"For what?"

_Snip._  "For lying to you."  _Snip._  "For…being in love with someone else."  _Snip_.

"Yeah." His voice was a heavy whisper.

_Snip._  Her tear ducts burned with the desire for release, but Hermione knew she would not cry, no matter how much she might want to.

"Hermione..." He sighed. "I can't be with you if something happens between you and Malfoy."

Her breath came out in a hot wave. "I know." Of course, he couldn't. She could never ask it of him. "You deserve better."

"I agree."

_Snip._  "I can't do this to you anymore."  _Snip._

He said nothing for a time, and the only sound between them was the  _snip_  of the scissors

against his hair. "So…it's Malfoy, then?"

_Snip._  It wasn't, actually. Not really. But she didn't know how to explain it to him. "No."  _Snip._  "He and I…" She didn't have a gameplan on how to finish that sentence, so she just sighed and let the  _snip_ of the scissors fill the room for several seconds. "It's complicated."

"No kidding."  _Snip._

"Are you upset?"

"Well," Harry said with a chuckle. "My scouts are trying to strong-arm me into moving camp, there's a fucking traitor living in our camp, and I can do fuck all about it. And to top it all off, now I'm being dumped."  _Snip._  "I'm a little upset."

"I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is."  _Snip._ "But I'm not leaving you for Him. I don't think I could be with Him either right now. I'm trying to…believe me, I curse the day you ran into him at the Ministry."

"Yeah."  _Snip._  "Me too."

"I love you, Harry."  _Snip._  "I just…I think this is best."

_Snip, snip, snip._  "You're probably right."

"I can move my things out tonight. I'm sure Andromeda wouldn't mind me staying with her and

Teddy until I can set up my own tent."

"You should stay. I can move."

She scoffed "I can still kick your ass, you know. You're staying, and that's final." She touched him gently on the shoulder, a softness against the harsh kindness of her words.

He covered her hand with his own. "How am I going to sleep without you?"

"Probably better. Those cots are criminally small as is."

He laughed. "I never minded that." He released her hand, but she kept it on his shoulder. "You're still my best friend, you know."

"Thank Circe for that." One final  _snip_ and he looked like a new man. She stroked his hair one last time.  _If only I could wake up and find that everything I believe to be my life is only a dream. I would choose you a million times._ She handed him a hand mirror. "You're perfect."

He smiled at her through the mirror, not really looking at his new haircut. "Thank you, Hermione." A single tear ran down his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away. "Thank you."

One day, she would look back on this moment and realize that it was the only truly selfless thing she had ever really done.

* * *

Hannah exited the tent, making a bee-line for her sometimes bed partner and fellow scout, Terry Boot. She needed a cigarette and possibly a good hard fuck to exorcize the shit bubble festering inside her from that fucking useless conversation with Potter.

As if anticipating her needs, Terry was standing nearby, leaning against a tree with a cigarette already poised for the taking. He motioned her away from the tent, and they walked deeper into the forest, away from camp, barely noticing as Hermione Granger entered Harry's tent behind them. "How did it go?"

"How do you think?"

Terry shook his head and lit his cigarette with his wand. "It's not right, him not taking you seriously."

"I fucking know it." The nicotine hitting her lungs was like a godsend. "He's distracted."

"Not an excuse."

She exhaled. "I didn't say it was. The world doesn't stop moving just because Hermione Granger's fucking a Death Eater."

"So, it's not just a rumor, then?"

Hannah shrugged and took another drag of her cigarette. "Who gives a shit? The point is Potter's not half the leader he used to be. First, it was all this Viktor Krum fuckery and now this."

Terry pointed his cigarette at her. "That's why Ginny Weasley left to do her own thing."

"Nah." Exhale. "Ginny Weasley left because Potter couldn't control her. He's always had a weird thing with women. It's like he's constantly surrounded by women who are smarter than him, and he doesn't know what to do with that." She took the final drag of her cigarette and crushed it under heel before vanishing it so as not to leave a trace. "From what I hear, Ginny's got a pretty tight camp up there. Everybody does their job. No questions asked. And she listens to her fucking people."

"Too bad Ginny's in Scotland, eh?"

"Don't be stupid. One Patronus and she'd show up in a heartbeat and fucking bury Potter."

"You think?"

"Ginny's a gangster. She's tough on people who come up short. If Snatchers bust this camp open just because Potter thinks I have a bigger cock than him…well." She lit another cigarette.

"You can imagine that a change in leadership would be necessary.

"Why Ginny, though? Why can't you and I run things?"

"I don't know. I wouldn't mind a change of scenery, myself. I hear Scotland's just  _lovely_ this time of year." She inhaled with a smirk. "Surely Ginny would need someone keeping track of our territory up there. Someone she trusts."

Terry shook his head and grinned. "And where do I fit into all this?"

"You do what you've always done." She smiled rakishly and patted his cheek. "Exactly what I tell you."


End file.
